Walk The Silver Blade, The True Chronicle of A Double Mystery

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-98744-937-6
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 261 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Excerpt: About six o'clock on an evening in the early part of a recent November, the drowsy quiet sometimes pervading police headquarters was rudely broken by the precipitate entrance of a young man, who made his way hurriedly to the door marked, in neat gilt letters, CHIEF OF POLICE. In addition to the reserve squad, whose vigil never ends, many other officers were present in the lazy transition stage between going on and going off duty. The attention of them all was immediately attracted to the stranger, and held by his extraordinary manner, from the instant he became visible in the flickering gas-lights until he finally disappeared. In the first place, he was not such a one as usually comes to the city-hall basement, either voluntarily or when haled hither by one of the law's myrmidons; for he was fashionably, even fastidiously, attired, with a marked preciosity of manner which would have been even more noticeable under ordinary conditions. But it was not over any idiosyncrasy of apparel or customary detail of personality that the aroused curiosity of the officers lingered. Inured as they were to uncommon and surprising events, they were nevertheless startled by this young man's advent, and greatly interested in his extreme discomposure. It was obvious to the most casual glance that he was the victim of a fright so potent that it possessed him to the complete exclusion of every other feeling, made him oblivious of the scrutiny to which he was subjected, and drove him blindly to the commission of some idea fixed by the terror which mastered him. And there was one other still more powerful emotion depicted in his pallid, twitching countenance: a horror unspeakable.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Walk, Charles Edmonds

Leseproben

BOOK I.

A DUPLEX PROBLEM
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand?
                                    —MACBETH. CHAPTER I

EXIT SEÑOR DE SANCHEZ
About six o'clock on an evening in the early part of a recent November, the drowsy quiet sometimes pervading police headquarters was rudely broken by the precipitate entrance of a young man, who made his way hurriedly to the door marked, in neat gilt letters, "CHIEF OF POLICE." In addition to the reserve squad, whose vigil never ends, many other officers were present in the lazy transition stage between going on and going off duty. The attention of them all was immediately attracted to the stranger, and held by his extraordinary manner, from the instant he became visible in the flickering gas-lights until he finally disappeared. In the first place, he was not such a one as usually comes to the city-hall basement, either voluntarily or when haled hither by one of the law's myrmidons; for he was fashionably, even fastidiously, attired, with a marked preciosity of manner which would have been even more noticeable under ordinary conditions. But it was not over any idiosyncrasy of apparel or customary detail of personality that the aroused curiosity of the officers lingered. Inured as they were to uncommon and surprising events, they were nevertheless startled by this young man's advent, and greatly interested in his extreme discomposure. It was obvious to the most casual glance that he was the victim of a fright so potent that it possessed him to the complete exclusion of every other feeling, made him oblivious of the scrutiny to which he was subjected, and drove him blindly to the commission of some idea fixed by the terror which mastered him. And there was one other still more powerful emotion depicted in his pallid, twitching countenance: a horror unspeakable. Looking neither to the right nor the left, the stranger walked directly to the Chief of Police just as that official was in the act of closing and locking his office door for the night. The latter looked up inquiringly, and, struck at once by the young man's appearance, asked with sudden sharpness: "What's the matter? What has happened?" The young man, his wild regard fastened on the Chief, tried to answer; but he was incapable of speech, and the effort resulted only in a queer, gasping sound. With the directness of a man accustomed to prompt action, the Chief of Police opened his door once more, and guided the young man into the smaller room beyond. The visitor, dazed by his emotions and unable to respond to any suggestion less forceful than the actual pressure of the persuasive hand on his arm, probably would have remained indefinitely motionless on the threshold before any customary invitation to enter. The Chief struck a match and ignited a gas-jet above a big roll-top desk. The action, simple in itself, seemed to loose the young man's faculty of speech; just as the official turned, he darted suddenly forward, grasped the other's arm, and began incontinently: "Murder! Murder has been done!" The words had the effect of a cry, although uttered in a hoarse whisper. "Murder, I tell you. Come with me at once; don't delay." He shook the Chief's arm excitedly, and strove to draw him toward the door. "Hurry! Hurry! For God's sake, hurry!" The Chief of Police easily disengaged his imprisoned arm. "There, there .... sit down there," said he, in a tone he might have used to calm a terrified child. "You are upset. Sit there awhile and try to collect yourself. Come; make an effort. Pull yourself together and tell me about it." "But the murderer!" the young man went on, still with high excitement, but unconsciously sinking back into the chair under the gentle pressure of the Chief's hand. "The murderer will escape! Great Heavens, man! even now he may be assaulting the doctor—Mobley—do you hear me?—he may have killed him! Send officers—go yourself—anything but to sit here idle. Come!" He made as if to rise again; but the other pressed him back. "Steady," said the Chief quietly. "Mobley? Do you mean Doctor Mobley Westbrook? Has he been murdered?" "No-no-no," in a burst of exasperation. "It was—it was—I mean—good God, what do I mean? It—it happened in his office." The Chief regarded him for a moment with eyes that were mere pin-points of light. "You are Mr. J. Howard Lynden, are you not?" he presently asked. The other nodded a quick affirmative. "I thought so," he continued. "Who is the murderer? Who has been murdered?—or has any murder been done? You don't make yourself clear." Lynden twisted nervously upon his chair. "Heavens! you do not doubt me?" he cried. "Why, Mobley's office is like a shambles. It's horrible!—horrible! Mobley—Doctor Westbrook, that is—was standing right over the dying man with—with—" He checked himself abruptly, as an expression of horror deepened in his pale countenance. Since the introduction of Doctor Mobley Westbrook's name, the Chief of Police was paying closer attention to the incoherent recital; he regarded the young man gravely, and evidently concluded that the situation was serious enough to warrant some initiative on his own part. He was accustomed to panic-stricken people who intruded thus unceremoniously upon him, and experience had taught him that, oftener than not, the circumstances were far from warranting the excitement. Concerning his present visitor, he was aware, in a general way, that the young man was well known about town, the inheritor of a considerable fortune from his father, and that his name figured prominently as a leader of cotillons, on the links of the Country Club, and among the names of the many others who formed the society set of the city. But all these qualifications did not supply the force so conspicuously absent from Mr. Lynden's personality, lacking which his perturbation was not very impressive. He was not at all bad looking: he was even handsome in a way; but the Chief of Police, as he looked, could not help remarking that a more resolute man would have been less the slave of his emotions in a situation like the present. While the young man sat drumming with nervous fingers on the arms of his chair, the Chief pressed a button beneath his desk, whereupon the door was almost immediately opened by an officer, who, without entering, respectfully awaited his superior's commands. To him the Chief said, "If Converse is in, tell him to come to my office;" and as the door closed, "I want Captain Converse to hear this," he explained to Lynden; "it seems to be a matter for his department." The two had not long to wait. A man entered, cast a piercing glance at the visitor, and took his stand at a corner of the roll-top desk, waiting with an air of deferential attention. He was a man of physique so immense—with such a breadth of shoulders and absence of neck—that his more than average height was much disguised. Above all, he was one whose appearance must attract attention in any gathering of his kind; for even as Lynden seemed to lack those desirable traits, so force and resolution flowed from this man's rugged personality, making their influence felt subtly and insistently. His air of quiet composure was evocative of confidence. Endowed with the impassiveness of an Indian, one could hardly imagine him excited or agitated in any circumstances. The Chief recognized his presence with a brief nod, and at once addressed Lynden: "Repeat what you have told me; see if you can't make it plainer." The visitor recounted the bare facts in a more connected manner. "But I was so shocked," he supplemented, "that I am afraid I can't make myself intelligible. The facts explain nothing to my mind further than that an atrocious murder has been committed, that the victim is still lying in Doctor Westbrook's office, and that no one seems to know who is responsible for the deed." "You say the man was stabbed?" queried the Chief. "Yes," was the reply; "stabbed in the throat." "But I fail to understand," the Chief frowned. "Do you mean to say that a man was stabbed in the presence of Doctor Westbrook, and that he knows nothing about it?" "No—no. It seems to have occurred in the hall just outside Mobley's door; the man fell through the door into the office, Mobley said. I don't know—I am so confused." Which last statement he confirmed by at once becoming involved in a wild incoherency of utterance. After he had quieted somewhat, he sat trembling for a moment, suddenly bursting forth again: "Wait!" he cried, his face lighting. "I forgot to say there was another man present in Doctor Westbrook's office—a stranger to me. I never saw him before." "And he?" "Just like Mobley and myself, he appeared to be overcome by the shocking occurrence." The Chief of Police plainly showed his perplexity. "According to your statement—the man who was killed—will you repeat his name?" "De Sanchez. General Westbrook's friend, Alberto de Sanchez." "According to your statement he was bleeding profusely. Had the weapon been withdrawn from the wound?" The young man evinced unaccountable hesitancy. He moved uneasily, and glanced from his questioner to the impassive figure standing at a corner of the desk. This man, called Converse, had taken no part in the talk; he stood silent and motionless,...