Chapter TWO: Threads of Iron

Bewildered, nerve-wrecked, full of apprehension, I looked around me that dull, gray morning. The recent events stood out like a horrible nightmare. At first I wondered if I had not been dreaming. But, alas! it was only too real.

The truth is, that there was nothing to boast about in the way I had behaved. I had been an abject, despicable fool, who deserved all the disastrous consequences of a craven act. And now I was a lorry-driver! If it were not so tragic it might even be amusing. I was impelled to laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation. But instead, as I approached the first policeman, I held my breath. Was he on the lookout for me?

My first visit was to New Street Station. The London newspapers were already in, so I bought two and quickly scanned them. There was no mention of the affair in Bloomsbury. Evidently information regarding the tragedy had not reached the newspaper offices before they had gone to press.

At a small coffee-shop behind the station, much used by taxi-drivers, I ate my humble breakfast, and re-examined the newspapers. Absence of any hue-and-cry heartened me. Yet was I acting right? Would it not have been safer to have returned to Sackville Street, changed my clothes, and obtained a couple of suit-cases? I wondered. I had changed my identity to that of a working-man, so in future I would be compelled to keep to that disguise.

When the shops opened I went to several cheap ones and made purchases, including a ready-made gray suit for Sundays and a new felt hat. These I had packed together, and, leaving the parcel in the cloak-room at the station, again sallied forth and bought the cheapest suit-case I could find. Into it I eventually placed my purchases, together with my lapis lazuli ring and my gold watch. Such adornments were unsuitable for a man of the class I had now assumed.

Afterwards I went to the telegraph-office and, in order to allay any undue suspicion, I wired to Bolland that I had been called to Birmingham suddenly, that I should be away several days. Another message I sent to Joan at Cannes, explaining that I was away in the Midlands. I was often absent on political business, speaking at meetings on questions arising out of the decisions of the League of Nations. I thought it a perfectly good explanation of the reason that I might not be able to write to her.

Just after eleven o’clock I left Birmingham for Euston, where I arrived at half-past two. My first action was to buy the early edition of the _Evening News_. And, setting down my suit-case outside the station, I eagerly looked over its columns.

Yes! It was there!

“Man Murdered in Bloomsbury Square. Escape of the Alleged Assassin,” greeted my eyes in bold type.

Breathlessly, I read the brief report, which was as follows:

“Just before midnight, a young woman, Hilda Bennett, living in Castle Street, Pimlico, was found, by a constable on duty, half collapsed, in Bloomsbury Square, beside the body of a man. She said he was a friend of hers named Warwick May, a corn merchant, carrying on business at Highbury. Examination showed that the dead man had been shot in the jaw, and that the bullet had penetrated the brain.

“The woman’s story is that she was walking alone, when she was accosted by a youngish, dark-haired man in evening-dress, who claimed having met her on the previous evening at a night-club. She had no knowledge of him and told him so, whereupon he became abusive, and her friend--who had been making a call, and was following to catch her up--came on the scene. She complained to her man friend and asked his protection, when, without a word, the unknown young fellow drew a revolver, and, after knocking him down, knelt upon him, banged his head several times upon the curb and then deliberately shot him.

“The woman’s story is apparently corroborated by the fact that a constable on duty in the vicinity noticed a young man, in black overcoat and opera-hat, running as for the train; but, not having heard the shot, and being in ignorance of what had occurred, he did not stop him. The police have the fugitive’s description, which has been widely circulated.”

Then followed a somewhat minute description of me, even to the chrysoprase studs, which were, happily, now in the possession of the cheery Dick at Wolverhampton.

Would my friends of the previous night see that description and read of the two distinctive studs? If so, what could be more likely than, in the circumstance of what they would regard as deliberate murder, that they should impart their experience to the police? The thought of it was most disconcerting.

As I put the paper into the pocket of my driving-coat, and took up my cheap suit-case, I encountered the policeman on patrol in the yard of the Euston Hotel. At once I felt convinced that he regarded me with suspicious glances.

I had become timid, scenting danger at every turn. Would you not have done so? My sudden flight after the tragic occurrence, without doubt had been a fatal mistake. Had I remained and told the truth, that the man’s death had been in consequence of his own desperate action, I would most surely have had British justice meted out to me. Even then, if the woman had told the same tale that she had already done, it was a most unsavory story, and one that I, surely, had no means of contradicting.

I felt that I must hide. And I deemed the safest place of concealment to be in one of the crowded working-class suburbs. Hence, I turned back into Euston Station and took train over to Waterloo. I had always understood that Camberwell was a good working-class neighborhood. Therefore, at Waterloo, I walked along to the London Road where I bought, at a cheap outfitter’s, a dark-gray overcoat; then I boarded a motor-bus going to Camberwell Green.

As we were passing along the Camberwell Road, I noticed, on the right, a drab, depressing street of uniform, unkempt houses, each with its area and flight of steps to the front door. It was the kind of spot I was in search of; therefore, I alighted and turned up the thoroughfare, examining the houses as I went. They were all Victorian, built after the same plan, none differing from its neighbor save in its degree of dirt or dinginess. The steps of some were neglected, others well hearth-stoned by hard-working hands, while on many of the windows rested the London grime of weeks, with curtains limp and yellow with fog and damp. It was, I noticed, called Avenue Road, and it was certainly a very complete specimen of the early jerry-builder’s art.

In the downstairs front room, on the street level of one of the houses on the left-hand side of the gloomy, uninviting thoroughfare, a dingy card announced that “apartments” were to be had. I rang the bell and waited, even though it went against the grain.

Presently a slatternly slip of a girl about fifteen appeared and, on inquiry, a stout, full-faced, rather swarthy woman, presumably her mother, came up behind her.

“Yes, I’ve got a room to let,” she said in a deep bass voice, scanning me closely, perhaps not without suspicion. “Like to come in and see it?”

My reply was in the affirmative. And so, depositing my suit-case in the hall, I followed her up the linoleum-covered stairs to a small, back room on the first-floor, meagrely-furnished, yet quite clean.

“I’m a journalist,” I said,” and I’ve just come up from Colchester. Can I also have a room in which to write? I’m usually glued to my table all day.”

“Of course, you can have the front sitting-room if you like to take it. We never use it.”

In consequence, I inspected the apartment indicated and after some conversation, rented the quarters. Depositing my bag in the bedroom, and, much to the satisfaction of my landlady, Mrs. Bowyer, I paid a fortnight’s rent in advance, by which I at once earned the distinction of being “a gentleman.” The name I gave was Edward Paige.

Those dingy, shabby rooms in Camberwell were, indeed, a contrast to my own cozy chambers in Sackville Street, off Piccadilly, and I remember how dull and dispirited I felt in the first hours I spent there.

I was asked if I would have a pair of kippers with my tea, and, in order to keep up the role I had assumed, I accepted, and, indeed, ate them with a relish. Afterwards, at seven o’clock, I went out in the darkness into the busy Camberwell Road, where I bought the late edition of a newspaper, and, taking it back, eagerly read what was further reported concerning my flight.

Before the fire, I stood beneath the hissing gas-jet reading. And while I read I held my breath. What I saw was intensely alarming. The police net was closing about me. It said:

“A motor-driver named Horbin, living in Wolverhampton, this afternoon made a statement to the police to the effect that while he and a fellow-driver were on their way with a lorry from London late last night, they were accosted by a man in evening-dress, closely resembling the man wanted. He begged them to give him a lift, and they did so. On the way the stranger bought the clothes and overcoat of his companion, so that when he left at Birmingham, he was disguised as a motor-driver. Most diligent inquiries are being made. The police are of the opinion that the fugitive took train back to London during the morning.”

I stood dumb. Surely it was fortunate that I had discarded the old motor-coat for that ordinary overcoat I had bought in the London Road. Nevertheless, I realized that I should never be able to go forth in the daylight, lest I might be recognized.

Therefore, I prepared myself to settle down to a dull, uneventful life, hourly fearing that my somewhat inquisitive landlady might read in her newspaper the description of me which had been circulated, and thus identify me with the man of whom the police were in such active search. What then?

Next morning I received a surprise; for, on being ushered into the back room for breakfast, I found that I had as fellow-lodger a slim, good-looking girl, with soft brown eyes and wavy auburn hair. She was already at table reading the newspaper when Mrs. Bowyer introduced her as Miss Lisely Hatten.

I look back upon it all now. Was she to be an instrument of Fate?

When I sat down with her and we began to chat, I learned that she was a typist, employed in a great insurance office in Cornhill. She was quietly but smartly dressed, with neat stockings and shoes, and I confess I rather liked her from the first.

I explained that I was a journalist and worked at home most part of the day, when suddenly she caused me to start by glancing at the paper and remarking:

“That’s a very mysterious affair, the murder in the street in Bloomsbury Square! Have you seen it? What do you think of it?”

I inhaled a deep breath.

“Oh! I suppose it was a crime of jealousy. Don’t you think so? One sees such scenes in the pictures.”

“I don’t know,” she replied very seriously. “I’d like to see the murderer arrested. Poor girl! If I were in her place, I’d hunt the devil down to the bitter end. Why should he shoot her lover in cold blood--go up and kill him without warning? The poor man had no chance of self-defence. It was done by some young bounder about town--some lounge-lizard or good-looking dancing-partner, perhaps.”

“Possibly,” I agreed, thankful that the suspicions of the good-looking young business girl had not been aroused by the description of myself which was being everywhere circulated.

“See you this evening,” she said gaily when she rose. “I’ll be in at about a quarter-past six, and we’ll feed together--if you’re agreeable. It’ll break the monotony of eating alone.”

“I’ll be delighted,” I replied, rising and bowing.

A moment later she had gone.

She struck me as a frank, outspoken girl of the usual City type, who carried her luncheon sandwiches in her little leather dispatch-case, together with her purse, lip-stick, and puff, and who, no doubt, could hop on or off a bus with that quick agility in which the London girl excels. I was glad to have her as companion, and yet, as the hours dragged on, I constantly feared that my description might yet cause her suspicion. In her speech there was just a slight trace of a foreign accent, and I wondered if she were English, for Lisely was certainly not an English name. Not daring to venture forth by daylight I got Mrs. Bowyer to bring me in a _Times_ when she went out to “do her errands,” and, after my lonely chop, I made pretence of writing all the afternoon. As a matter of fact, I copied out one of the leading articles in the paper, and left it about to convince her, when I went out, that I really was a journalist.

I had been in hiding for twenty-four hours, and already it seemed an eternity.

Would my continued absence arouse the anxiety of friends? If so, they must certainly identify me with the fugitive. What would Joan think in such a case? What would my own family think? I now realized that, because of my sudden fear of scandal, I had acted most foolishly in escaping. Was not my action practically tantamount to an admission of guilt?

I scented danger--great danger!

Soon after six o’clock Lisely Hatten returned, greeting me merrily before going upstairs to take off her hat and coat. Later we sat over the fire in the little back room awaiting our evening meal.

“I’ve had a horribly busy day to-day, and everything went wrong. My boss has been out of temper because he couldn’t get his golf, and I made two mistakes in letters for which I got cursed!” she told me. “One girl has got the sack because she cheeked the old bean. Oh, it’s been a perfectly wonderful day!” she said.

“So it appears,” I laughed, yet knowing that in my rather ill-fitting, cheap gray suit I presented a sorry figure. Like most men-about-town, I rather prided myself on the cut of my clothes, and the neatness of my tie, socks, and shoes. But, when I looked at my present reflection in the mirror, I stood horrified.

She took the cigarette I offered her and consumed it, her mind seeming lazy, with all the gusto of an ardent smoker, and then suddenly she remarked:

“I see by to-night’s paper that they haven’t found the Bloomsbury murderer yet. Scotland Yard is sparing no effort to find him. They were discussing it in the office to-day. The police seem to think that he’s the man to whom a lorry-driver sold his clothes the night before last.”

“Well, I hope they’ll find him,” I remarked, bending to take a fresh cigarette, and thereby to hide my countenance.

Just at that moment I became aware that she had fixed her big, dark eyes on me with a very curious stare--a bewildered, puzzled, tell-tale glance. Then, a moment later, she exclaimed in an unusual tone:

“You may think it strange, Mr. Paige, but--but somehow you yourself are very much like the description of the man they want.”

Surely Fate spins threads of iron.