The Beetle, Richard Marsh [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

part was the procuration of fresh victims for that long-drawn-out holocaust. That this latter object explained the disappearance of Miss Lindon I felt persuaded. That she was designed by the personification of evil who was her captor, to suffer all the horrors at which the stories pointed, and then to be burned alive, amidst the triumphant yells of the attendant demons, I was certain. That the wretch, aware that the pursuit was in full cry, was tearing, twisting, doubling, and would stick at nothing which would facilitate the smuggling of the victim out of England, was clear.

My interest in the quest was already far other than a merely professional one. The blood in my veins tingled at the thought of such a woman as Miss Lindon being in the power of such a monster. I may assuredly claim that throughout the whole business I was urged forward by no thought of fee or of reward. To have had a share in rescuing that unfortunate girl, and in the destruction of her noxious persecutor, would have been reward enough for me.

One is not always, even in strictly professional matters, influenced by strictly professional instincts.

The cab slowed. A voice descended through the trap door.

“This is Commercial Road, sir⁠—what part of it do you want?”

“Drive me to Limehouse Police Station.”

We were driven there. I made my way to the usual inspector behind the usual pigeonhole.

“My name is Champnell. Have you received any communication from Scotland Yard tonight having reference to a matter in which I am interested?”

“Do you mean about the Arab? We received a telephonic message about half an hour ago.”

“Since communicating with Scotland Yard this has come to hand from the authorities at Vauxhall Station. Can you tell me if anything has been seen of the person in question by the men of your division?”

I handed the Inspector the “report.” His reply was laconic.

“I will inquire.”

He passed through a door into an inner room and the “report” went with him.

“Beg pardon, sir, but was that a Harab you was a-talking about to the Hinspector?”

The speaker was a gentleman unmistakably of the guttersnipe class. He was seated on a form. Close at hand hovered a policeman whose special duty it seemed to be to keep an eye upon his movements.

“Why do you ask?”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I saw a Harab myself about a hour ago⁠—leastways he looked like as if he was a Harab.”

“What sort of a looking person was he?”

“I can’t ’ardly tell you that, sir, because I didn’t never have a proper look at him⁠—but I know he had a bloomin’ great bundle on ’is ’ead.⁠ ⁠… It was like this, ’ere. I was comin’ round the corner, as he was passin’, I never see ’im till I was right atop of ’im, so that I haccidentally run agin ’im⁠—my heye! didn’t ’e give me a downer! I was down on the back of my ’ead in the middle of the road before I knew where I was and ’e was at the other end of the street. If ’e ’adn’t knocked me more’n ’arf silly I’d been after ’im, sharp⁠—I tell you! and hasked ’im what ’e thought ’e was a-doin’ of, but afore my senses was back agin ’e was out o’ sight⁠—clean!”

“You are sure he had a bundle on his head?”

“I noticed it most particular.”

“How long ago do you say this was? and where?”

“About a hour ago⁠—perhaps more, perhaps less.”

“Was he alone?”

“It seemed to me as if a cove was a follerin’ ’im, leastways there was a bloke as was a-keepin’ close at ’is ’eels⁠—though I don’t know what ’is little game was, I’m sure. Ask the pleesman⁠—he knows, he knows everything the pleesman do.”

I turned to the “pleesman.”

“Who is this man?”

The “pleesman” put his hands behind his back, and threw out his chest. His manner was distinctly affable.

“Well⁠—he’s being detained upon suspicion. He’s given us an address at which to make inquiries, and inquiries are being made. I shouldn’t pay too much attention to what he says if I were you. I don’t suppose he’d be particular about a lie or two.”

This frank expression of opinion re-aroused the indignation of the gentleman on the form.

“There you hare! at it again! That’s just like you peelers⁠—you’re all the same! What do you know about me?⁠—Nuffink! This gen’leman ain’t got no call to believe me, not as I knows on⁠—it’s all the same to me if ’e do or don’t, but it’s trewth what I’m sayin’, all the same.”

At this point the Inspector reappeared at the pigeonhole. He cut short the flow of eloquence.

“Now then, not so much noise outside there!” He addressed me. “None of our men have seen anything of the person you’re inquiring for, so far as we’re aware. But, if you like, I will place a man at your disposal, and he will go round with you, and you will be able to make your own inquiries.”

A capless, wildly excited young ragamuffin came dashing in at the street door. He gasped out, as clearly as he could for the speed which he had made:

“There’s been murder done, Mr. Pleesman⁠—a Harab’s killed a bloke.”

“Mr. Pleesman” gripped him by the shoulder.

“What’s that?”

The youngster put up his arm, and ducked his head, instinctively, as if to ward off a blow.

“Leave me alone! I don’t want none of your ’andling!⁠—I ain’t done nuffink to you! I tell you ’e ’as!”

The Inspector spoke through the pigeonhole.

“He has what, my lad? What do you say has happened?”

“There’s been murder done⁠—it’s right enough!⁠—there ’as!⁠—up at Mrs. ’Enderson’s, in Paradise Place⁠—a Harab’s been and killed a bloke!”

XLIV The Man Who Was Murdered

The Inspector spoke to me.

“If what the boy says is correct it sounds as if the person whom you are seeking may have had a finger in the pie.”

I was of the same opinion, as, apparently, were Lessingham and Sidney. Atherton collared the youth by the shoulder which Mr. Pleesman had left disengaged.

“What sort of looking bloke is it who’s