The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

me of ‘im! ‘E vill never tracasser me no more.” And he went away.

      The girl went to the outer door of Rameau’s rooms, knocked, and got no reply. Concluding that the tenant was out, she was about to use her keys, when she found that the door was unlocked. She passed through the lobby and into the sitting-room, and there fell in a dead faint at the sight that met her eyes. Rameau lay with his back across the sofa and his head—drooping within an inch of the ground. On the head was a fearful gash, and below it was a pool of blood.

      The girl must have lain unconscious for about ten minutes. When she came to her senses, she dragged herself, terrified, from the room and up to the housekeeper’s apartments, where, being an excitable and nervous creature, she only screamed “Murder!” and immediately fell in a fit of hysterics that lasted three-quarters of an hour. When at last she came to herself, she told her story, and, the hall-porter having been summoned, Rameau’s rooms were again approached.

      The blood still lay on the floor, and the chopper, with which the crime had evidently been committed, rested against the fender; but the body had vanished! A search was at once made, but no trace of it could be seen anywhere. It seemed impossible that it could have been carried out of the building, for the hall-porter must at once have noticed anybody leaving with so bulky a burden. Still, in the building it was not to be found.

      When Hewitt was informed of these things on Monday, the police were, of course, still in possession of Rameau’s rooms. Inspector Nettings, Hewitt was told, was in charge of the case, and as the inspector was an acquaintance of his, and was then in the rooms upstairs, Hewitt went up to see him.

      Nettings was pleased to see Hewitt, and invited him to look around the rooms. “Perhaps you can spot something we have overlooked,” he said. “Though it’s not a case there can be much doubt about.”

      “You think it’s Goujon, don’t you?”

      “Think? Well, rather! Look here! As soon as we got here on Saturday, we found this piece of paper and pin on the floor. We showed it to the housemaid, and then she remembered—she was too much upset to think of it before—that when she was in the room the paper was lying on the dead man’s chest—pinned there, evidently. It must have dropped off when they removed the body. It’s a case of half-mad revenge on Goujon’s part, plainly. See it; you read French, don’t you?”

      The paper was a plain, large half-sheet of note-paper, on which a sentence in French was scrawled in red ink in a large, clumsy hand, thus:

      puni par un vengeur de la tortue.

      “Puni par un vengeur de la tortue,” Hewitt repeated musingly. “‘Punished by an avenger of the tortoise,’ That seems odd.”

      “Well, rather odd. But you understand the reference, of course. Have they told you about Rameau’s treatment of Goujon’s pet tortoise?”

      “I think it was mentioned among his other pranks. But this is an extreme revenge for a thing of that sort, and a queer way of announcing it.”

      “Oh, he’s mad—mad with Rameau’s continual ragging and baiting,” Nettings answered. “Anyway, this is a plain indication—plain as though he’d left his own signature. Besides, it’s in his own language—French. And there’s his chopper, too.”

      “Speaking of signatures,” Hewitt remarked, “perhaps you have already compared this with other specimens of Goujon’s writing?”

      “I did think of it, but they don’t seem to have a specimen to hand, and, anyway, it doesn’t seem very important. There’s ‘avenger of the tortoise’ plain enough, in the man’s own language, and that tells everything. Besides, handwritings are easily disguised.”

      “Have you got Goujon?”

      “Well, no; we haven’t. There seems to be some little difficulty about that. But I expect to have him by this time to-morrow. Here comes Mr. Styles, the landlord.”

      Mr. Styles was a thin, querulous, and withered-looking little man, who twitched his eyebrows as he spoke, and spoke in short, jerky phrases.

      “No news, eh, inspector, eh? eh? Found out nothing else, eh? Terrible thing for my property—terrible! Who’s your friend?”

      Nettings introduced Hewitt.

      “Shocking thing this, eh, Mr. Hewitt? Terrible! Comes of having anything to do with these blood-thirsty foreigners, eh? New buildings and all—character ruined. No one come to live here now, eh? Tenants—noisy niggers—murdered by my own servants—terrible! You formed any opinion, eh?”

      “I dare say I might if I went into the case.”

      “Yes, yes—same opinion as inspector’s, eh? I mean an opinion of your own?” The old man scrutinized Hewitt’s face sharply.

      “If you’d like me to look into the matter—” Hewitt began.

      “Eh? Oh, look into it! Well, I can’t commission you, you know—matter for the police. Mischief’s done. Police doing very well, I think—must be Goujon. But look about the place, certainly, if you like. If you see anything likely to serve my interests, tell me, and—and—perhaps I’ll employ you, eh, eh? Good-afternoon.”

      The landlord vanished, and the inspector laughed. “Likes to see what he’s buying, does Mr. Styles,” he said.

      Hewitt’s first impulse was to walk out of the place at once. But his interest in the case had been roused, and he determined, at any rate, to examine the rooms, and this he did very minutely. By the side of the lobby was a bath-room, and in this was fitted a tip-up wash-basin, which Hewitt inspected with particular attention. Then he called the housekeeper, and made inquiries about Rameau’s clothes and linen. The housekeeper could give no idea of how many overcoats or how much linen he had had. He had all a negro’s love of display, and was continually buying new clothes, which, indeed, were lying, hanging, littering, and choking up the bedroom in all directions. The housekeeper, however, on Hewitt’s inquiring after such a garment in particular, did remember one heavy black ulster, which Rameau had very rarely worn—only in the coldest weather.

      “After the body was discovered,” Hewitt asked the housekeeper, “was any stranger observed about the place—whether carrying anything or not?”

      “No, sir,” the housekeeper replied. “There’s been particular inquiries about that. Of course, after we knew what was wrong and the body was gone, nobody was seen, or he’d have been stopped. But the hall-porter says he’s certain no stranger came or went for half an hour or more before that—the time about when the housemaid saw the body and fainted.”

      At this moment a clerk from the landlord’s office arrived and handed Nettings a paper. “Here you are,” said Nettings to Hewitt; “they’ve found a specimen of Goujon’s handwriting at last, if you’d like to see it. I don’t want it; I’m not a graphologist, and the case is clear enough for me anyway.”

      Hewitt took the paper. “This” he said, “is a different sort of handwriting from that on the paper. The red-ink note about the avenger of the tortoise is in a crude, large, clumsy, untaught style of writing. This is small, neat, and well formed—except that it is a trifle shaky, probably because of the hand injury.”

      “That’s nothing,” contended Nettings. “Handwriting clues are worse than useless, as a rule. It’s so easy to disguise and imitate writing; and besides, if Goujon is such a good penman as you seem to say, why, he could all the easier alter his style. Say now yourself, can any fiddling question of handwriting get over this thing about ‘avenging the tortoise’—practically a written confession—to say nothing of the chopper, and what he said to the housemaid as he left?”

      “Well,” said Hewitt, “perhaps not; but we’ll see. Meantime”—turning