CHAPTER IX.
MR. GORBY IS SATISFIED AT LAST.
In spite of his long walk, and still longer drive, Brian did not sleep well that night. He kept tossing and turning, or else lying on his back, wide awake, looking into the darkness, and thinking of Whyte. Towards dawn, when the first faint glimmer of morning came through the Venetian blinds, he fell into a sort of uneasy doze, haunted by horrible dreams. He thought he was driving in a hansom, when suddenly he found Whyte by his side, clad in white cerements, grinning and gibbering at him with ghastly merriment. Then the cab went over a precipice, and he fell from a great height, down, down, with the mocking laughter still sounding in his ears, until he awoke with a loud cry, and found that it was broad daylight, and that drops of perspiration were standing on his brow. It was no good trying to sleep any longer, so, with a weary sigh, he arose and went for his tub, feeling jaded and worn out by worry and want of sleep. His bath did him some good, as the cold water brightened him up and pulled him together. Still he could not help giving a start of surprise when he saw his face looking at him from the mirror, old and haggard-looking, with dark circles around the eyes.
"A pleasant life I'm going to have of it if this sort of thing goes on," he said bitterly; "I wish to G— I had never seen or heard of Whyte."
He dressed himself carefully, however, for Brian was a man who never neglected his toilet, however worried and out of sorts he might feel. Yet, notwithstanding his efforts to throw off his gloom and feel cheerful, his landlady was startled when she saw how haggard and wan his handsome face looked in the searching morning light.
She was a small, dried-up little woman, with a wrinkled, yellow face, and looked so parched and brittle that strangers could not help thinking that it would do her good if she were soaked in water for a year, in order to soften her a little. Whenever she moved she crackled, and one was in constant dread of seeing one of her wizen-looking limbs break off short, like the branch of a dead tree. When she spoke it was in a hard, shrill voice, like cricket; and being dressed in a faded brown silk, what with her voice and attenuated body,she was not unlike that noisy insect. She crackled into Brian's sitting room with the Argus and coffee, and a look of dismay came over her stony little face as she saw his altered looks.
"Dear me, sir," she chirped out in her shrill voice, as she placed her burden on the table, "are you took bad?"
Brian shook his head.
"Want of sleep, that's all, Mrs. Sampson," he answered, unfolding the Argus.
"Ah! that's because ye ain't got enough blood in yer 'ead," said Mrs. Sampson, wisely, for she had her own ideas on the subject of health. "If you ain't got blood you ain't got sleep."
Brian looked at her as she said this, for there seemed such an obvious want of blood in her veins that he wondered if she had ever slept in all her life.
"There was my father's brother, which, of course, makes 'im my uncle," went on the landlady, pouring out a cup of coffee for Brian, "an' the blood 'e 'ad was something astoundin', which it made 'im sleep that long as they 'ad to draw pints from 'im afore 'e'd wake in the mornin'."
Brian had the Argus before his face, and under its friendly cover laughed quietly to himself at the very tall story Mrs. Sampson was telling.
"His blood poured out like a river," went on the landlady, still drawing from the rich stores of her imagination, "and the doctor was struck dumb with astonishment at seein' the Niagerer which burst from 'im—but I'm not so full-blooded myself."
Fitzgerald again stifled a laugh, and wondered that Mrs. Sampson was not afraid of being treated in the same manner as Ananias and Sapphira. However, he said nothing, but merely intimated that if she would leave the room he would take his breakfast.
"An' if you wants anythin' else, Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, going to the door, "you knows your way to the bell as easily as I do to the kitching," and, with a final chirrup, she crackled out of the room.
As soon as the door was closed Brian put down his paper and roared, in spite of the worry he was in. He had that extraordinary vivacious Irish temperament, by which a man can put all trouble behind his back, and thoroughly enjoy the present. His landlady, with her Arabian Night-like romances, was a source of great amusement to him, and he felt considerably cheered by the odd turn her humor had taken this morning. After a time, however, his laughter ceased, and all his troubles came crowding on him again. He drank his coffee, but pushed away the food which was before him, and then looked through the Argus, to see the latest report about the murder case. What he read made his cheek turn even paler than it was, and he could feel his heart beating loudly.
"They've found a clue, have they?" he muttered, rising and pacing restlessly up and down. "I wonder what it can be? I threw that man off the scent last night, but if he suspects me, there will be no difficulty in him finding out where I live. Bah! What nonsense I am talking. I am the victim of my own morbid imagination. There is nothing to connect me with the crime, so I need not be afraid of my shadow. I've a good mind to leave town for a time, but if I am suspected that would excite suspicion. Oh, Madge! my darling," he cried, passionately, "if you only knew what I suffer, I know that you would pity me—but you must never know the truth—'Never! Never!'" and sinking into a chair by the window he covered his face with his hands. After remaining in this position for some minutes, occupied with his own gloomy thoughts, he arose and rang the bell. A faint crackle in the distance announced that Mrs. Sampson had heard, and she soon came into the room, looking more like a cricket than ever. Brian had gone into his bedroom, and called out to her from there—
"I am going down to St. Kilda, Mrs. Sampson," he said, "and probably will not be back all day."
"Which I 'opes it 'ull do you good,"answered the cricket, "for you've eaten nothin', an' the sea breezes is miraculous for makin' you take to your vittals. My mother's brother, bein' a sailor, an' wonderful for 'is stomach, which when 'e 'ad done a meal, the table looked as if a low-cuss 'ad gone over it."
"A what?" asked Fitzgerald, buttoning his gloves.
"A low-cuss," replied the landlady, in surprise at his ignorance, "as I've read in 'Oly Writ as 'ow John the Baptist was partial to 'em, not that I think they'd be very fillin', tho', to be sure, 'e 'ad a sweet tooth, and ate 'oney with 'em."
"Oh! you mean locusts," said Brian, now enlightened.
"An' what else?" asked Mrs. Sampson, indignantly; "which, tho' not bein' a scholard, I speaks English, I 'opes, my mother's second cousin 'avin 'ad first prize at a 'spellin' bee, tho' 'e died early through brain fever, 'avin crowded 'is 'ead over much with the dictionary."
"Dear me!" shouted Brian mechanically. "How unfortunate." He was not listening to Mrs. Sampson's remarks, but was thinking of an arrangement which Madge had made, and which he had forgotten till now.
"Mrs. Sampson," he said, turning round at the door, "I am going to bring Mr. Frettlby and his daughter to have a cup of afternoon tea here; so you might have some ready."
"You 'ave only to ask and to 'ave," answered Mrs. Sampson, hospitably, with a gratified crackle of all her joints. "I'll make tea, sir, an' also some of my own pertickler cakes, bein' a special kind I 'ave, which my mother showed me 'ow to make, 'avin' been taught by a lady as she nussed thro' the scarlet fever, tho' bein' of a weak constitution she died soon arter, bein' in the 'abit of contractin' any disease she might chance on."
As Brian did not care about a connection between cooking and scarlet fever, he hurried away, lest Mrs. Sampson should bring out more charnel house horrors, for which she had a Poe-like appreciation. Indeed, at one period of her life, the little woman having been a nurse, she had frightened one of her patients into convulsions by narrating to her the history of all the corpses she had laid out. This ghoul-like tendency having been discovered, she never obtained any more patients to nurse, as they objected when in a weak state to hear such grotesque horrors.
As soon as Fitzgerald had gone, she went over to the window and watched him as he walked slowly down the street—a tall, handsome man of whom any woman would be proud.
"What an awful thing it are to think 'e'll be a corpse some day," she chirped cheerily to herself, "tho' of course bein' a great swell in 'is own place, 'e'll 'ave a nice airy vault, which 'ud be far more comfortable than a close, stuffy grave, even tho' it 'as a tombstone an' vi'lets over it. Ah, now! Who are you, impertinence?" she broke off, as a stout man in a light suit of clothes crossed the road and rang the bell, "a-pullin' at the bell as if it were a pump 'andle."
As the gentleman at the door, who was none other than Mr. Gorby, did not hear her, he of course did not reply, so she hurried down the stairs, crackling with anger at the rough usage that her bell had received.
Mr. Gorby had seen Brian go out, and deeming it a good opportunity to prosecute inquiries, had lost no time in making a start.
"You nearly tored the bell down," said the fiery cricket, as she presented her thin body and wrinkled face to the view of the detective.
"I'm very sorry," answered Gorby, meekly. "I'll knock next time."
"Oh, no you won't," said the landlady, tossing her head, "me not 'avin' a knocker, an' your 'and a-scratchin' the paint off the door, which it ain't been done over six months by my sister-in-law's cousin, which 'e is a painter, with a shop in Fitzroy, an' a wonderful heye to color."
"Does Mr. Fitzgerald live here?" asked Mr. Gorby quietly.
"He do," replied Mrs. Sampson, "but 'e's gone out, an' won't be back till the arternoon, which any messidge 'ull be delivered to 'im punctual on 'is arrival."
"I'm glad he's not in," said Mr. Gorby. "Would you allow me to have a few moments' conversation?"
"What is it?" asked the cricket, her curiosity being roused."
"I'll tell you when we get inside," answered Mr. Gorby.
The cricket looked at him with her sharp little eyes, and seeing nothing disreputable in him, led the way upstairs, crackling loudly the whole time. This so astonished Mr. Gorby that he cast about in his own mind for an explanation of the phenomena.
"Wants oiling about the joints," was his conclusion, "but I never heard anything like it, and she looks as if she'd snap in two, she's that brittle."
Mrs. Sampson took Gorby into Brian's sitting-room, and having closed the door sat down and prepared to hear what he had to say for himself.
"I 'ope it ain't bills," she said. "Mr. Fitzgerald 'avin' money in the bank, and everythin' respectable like a gentleman as 'e is, tho', to be sure, your bill might come down on him unbeknown, 'e not havin' kept it in mind, which it ain't everybody as 'ave sich a good memory as my aunt on my mother's side, she 'avin bin famous for 'er dates like a 'istory, not to speak of 'er multiplication tables and the numbers of people's 'ouses."
"It's not bills," answered Mr. Gorby, who, having vainly attempted to stem the shrill torrent of words, had given in and waited mildly until she had finished; "I only want to know a little about Mr. Fitzgerald's habits."
"And what for?" asked Mrs. Sampson, with an indignant cackle. "Are you a noospaper a-puttin' in articles about people who don't want to see 'emselves in print, which I knows your 'abits, my late 'usband 'avin bin a printer on a paper which bust up, not 'avin the money to pay wages, thro' which there was doo to him the sum of one pound seven and sixpence half-penny, which I, bein' 'is widder, ought to 'ave, not that I expects to see it on this side of the grave—oh, dear, no!" and she gave a shrill, elfish laugh.
Mr. Gorby, seeing that unless he took the bull by the horns he would never be able to get what he wanted, grew desperate, and plunged in medias res.
"I am an insurance agent," he said rapidly, so as to prevent any interruption by the cricket; "and Mr. Fitzgerald wants to insure his life in our company. Before doing so, I want to find out if he is a good life to insure; does he live temperately? keep early hours? and, in fact, all about him."
"I shall be 'appy to answer any inquiries which may be of use to you, sir," replied Mrs. Sampson; "knowin', as I do, 'how good a insurance is to a family, should the 'ead of it be taken off unexpected, leavin' a widder, which, as I know, Mr. Fitzgerald is a-goin' to be married soon, an' I 'opes 'e'll be 'appy, tho' thro' it I loses a lodger as 'as allays paid regler, an' be'aved like a gentleman."
"So he is a temperate man?" said Mr. Gorby, feeling his way cautiously.
"Not bein' a blue ribbon all the same," answered Mrs. Sampson; "and I never saw 'im the wuss for drink, 'e being allays able to use 'is latch key, and take 'is boots off afore going to bed, which is no more than a woman ought to expect from a lodger, she 'avin to do 'er own washin'."
"And he keeps good hours?"
"Allays in afore the clock strikes twelve," answered the landlady; "tho' to be sure, I uses it as a figger of speech, none of the clocks in the 'ouse strikin' but one, which is bein' mended, 'avin' broke through overwindin'."
"Is he always in before twelve?" asked Mr. Gorby, keenly disappointed at this answer.
Mrs. Sampsom eyed him waggishly, and a smile crept over her wrinkled little face.
"Young men, not bein' old men," she replied, cautiously, "and sinners not bein' saints, it's not nattral as latch keys should be made for ornament instead of use, and Mr. Fitzgerald bein' one of the 'andsomest men in Melbourne, it ain't to be expected as 'e should let 'is latch key git rusty, tho', 'avin' a good moral character, 'e uses it with moderation."
"But I suppose you are generally asleep when he comes in late?" said the detective; "so you can't tell what hour he comes home?"
"Not as a rule," assented Mrs. Sampson; "bein' a 'eavy sleeper, and much disposed for bed, but I 'ave 'eard 'im come in arter twelve, the last time bein' Thursday week."
"Ah!" Mr. Gorby drew a long breath, for Thursday week was the night when the murder was committed.
"Bein' troubled with my 'ead," said Mrs. Sampson, "thro' 'avin' been out in the sun all day a-washin', I did not feel so partial to my bed that night as in general, so went down to the kitchen with the intent of getting a linseed poultice to put at the back of my 'ead, it bein' calculated to remove pain, as was told to me, when a nuss, by a doctor in the horspital, 'e now bein' in business for hisself, at Geelong, with a large family, 'avin' married early. Just as I was leavin' the kitching I 'eard Mr. Fitzgerald a-comin' in, and, turnin' round, looked at the clock, that 'avin' been my custom when my late 'usband came in, in the early mornin,' I bein' a preparin' 'is meal."
"And the time was?" asked Mr. Gorby, breathlessly.
"Five minutes to two o'clock," replied Mrs. Sampson.
Mr. Gorby thought for a moment.
Cab was hailed at one o'clock—started for St. Kilda at about ten minutes past—reached Grammar School, say at twenty-five minutes past—Fitzgerald talks five minutes to cabman, making it half-past—say, he waited ten minutes for other cab to turn up, makes it twenty minutes to two—it would take another twenty minutes to get to East Melbourne—and five minutes to walk up here—that makes it five minutes past two instead of before—confound it. "Was your clock in the kitchen right?" he asked, aloud.
"Well, I think so," answered Mrs. Sampson. "It does get a little slow sometimes, not 'avin been cleaned for some time, which my nevy bein' a watchmaker I allays 'ands it over to 'im."
"Of course it was slow on that night," said Gorby, triumphantly. "He must have come in at five minutes past two—which makes it right."
"Makes what right?" asked the landlady, sharply. "And 'ow do you know my clock was ten minutes wrong?"
"Oh, it was, was it?" asked Gorby, eagerly.
"I'm not denyin' that it wasn't," replied Mrs. Sampson; "clocks ain't allays to be relied on more than men an' women—but it won't be anythin' agin 'is insurance, will it, as in general 'e's in afore twelve?"
"Oh, all that will be quite safe," answered the detective, delighted at having obtained the required information. "Is this Mr. Fitzgerald's room?"
"Yes, it is," replied the landlady; "but 'e furnished it 'imself, bein' of a luxurus turn of mind, not but what 'is taste is good, tho' far be it from me to deny I 'elped 'im to select; but 'avin another room of the same to let, any friends as you might 'ave in search of a 'ome 'ud be well looked arter, my references bein' very 'igh, an' my cookin' tasty—an' if—"
Here a ring at the front door bell called Mrs. Sampson away, so with a hurried word to Gorby she crackled down stairs. Left to himself, Mr. Gorby arose and looked around the room. It was excellently furnished, and the pictures on the wall were all in good taste. There was a writing table at one end of the room under the window, which was covered with papers.
"It's no good looking for the papers he took out of Whyte's pocket, I suppose," said the detective to himself, as he turned over some letters, "as I don't know what they are, and couldn't tell them if I saw them; but I'd like to find that missing glove and the bottle that held the chloroform—unless he's done away with them. There doesn't seem any sign of them here, so I'll have a look in his bed-room."
There was no time to lose, as Mrs. Sampson might return at any moment, so Mr. Gorby walked quickly into the bed-room, which opened off the sitting room. The first thing that caught the detective's eye was a large photograph of Madge Frettlby in a plush frame, which stood on the dressing table. It was the same kind as he had already seen in Whyte's album, and he took it up with a laugh.
"You're a pretty girl," he said, apostrophising the picture, "but you give your photograph to two young men, both in love with you and both hot-tempered. The result is that one is dead, and the other won't survive him long. That's what you've done."
He put it down again, and looking round the room, caught sight of a light covert coat hanging behind the door, and also a soft hat.
"Ah," said the detective, going up to the door, "here is the very coat you wore when you killed that poor fellow. I wonder what you have in the pockets," and he plunged his hand into them in turn. There was an old theatre programme and a pair of brown gloves in one, but in the second pocket Mr. Gorby made a discovery—none other than that of the missing glove. There it was—a soiled white glove for the right hand, with black bands down the back; and the detective smiled in a gratified manner as he put it carefully in his pocket.
"My morning has not been wasted," he said to himself.
"I've found out that he came in at a time which corresponds to all his movements after one o'clock on Thursday night, and this is the missing glove, which clearly belonged to Whyte. If I could only get hold of the chloroform bottle I'd be satisfied."
But the chloroform bottle was not to be found, though he searched most carefully for it. At last, hearing Mrs. Sampson coming up stairs again, he desisted from his search, and came back to the sitting-room.
"Threw it away, I expect," he said, as he sat down in his old place; "but it doesn't matter. I think I can form a chain of evidence, from what I have discovered, which will be sufficient to convict him. Besides, I expect when he is arrested he will confess everything; he seems to have such a lot of remorse for what he has done."
The door opened, and Mrs. Samoson crackled into the room in a state of indignation.
"One of them Chinese 'awkers,'" she explained, "'e's bin a-tryin' to git the better of me over carrots—as if I didn't know what carrots was—and 'im a talkin' about a shillin' in his gibberish, as if 'e 'adn't bin brought up in a place where they don't know what a shillin' is. But I never could abide foreigners ever since a Frenchman, as taught me 'is language, made orf with my mother's silver tea-pot, unbeknown to 'er, it being set out on the sideboard for company."
Mr. Gorby interrupted these domestic reminiscences of Mrs. Sampson's by stating that now she had given him all necessary information, he would take his departure.
"An' I 'opes," said Mrs. Sampson, as she opened the door for him, "as I'll 'ave the pleasure of seein' you again should any business on be'alf of Mr. Fitzgerald require it."
"Oh, I'll see you again," said Mr. Gorby, with a heavy jocularity, "and in a way you won't like, as you'll be called as a witness," he added, mentally. "Did I understand you to say, Mrs. Sampson," he went on, "that Mr. Fitzgerald would be at home this afternoon?"
"Oh yes, sir, 'e will," answered Mrs. Sampson, "a drinkin' tea with his young lady, who is Miss Frettlby, and 'as got no end of money, not but what I mightn't 'ave 'ad the same 'ad I been born in a higher spear."
"You need not tell Mr. Fitzgerald I have been here," said Gorby, closing the gate; "I'll probably call and see him myself this afternoon."
"What a stout person 'e are," said Mrs. Sampson to herself, as the detective walked away, "just like my late father, who was always fleshy, bein' a great eater, and fond of 'is glass, but I took arter my mother's family, they bein' thin-like, and proud of keeping 'emselves so, as the vinegar they drank could testify, not that I indulge in it myself."
She shut the door, and went upstairs to take away the breakfast things, while Gorby was being driven along at a good pace to the police office, in order to get a warrant for Brian's arrest, on a charge of willful murder.