Ashton-Kirk, Investigator

Young Pendleton’s car crept carefully around the corner and wound in and out among the pushcart men and dirty children.

About midway in the block was a square-built house with tall, small-paned windows and checkered with black-headed brick. It stood slightly back from the street with ancient dignity; upon the shining doorplate, deeply bitten in angular text, was the name “Ashton-Kirk.”

Here the car stopped; Pendleton got out, ascended the white marble steps and tugged at the polished, old-fashioned bell-handle.

A grave-faced German, in dark livery, opened the door.

“Mr. Ashton-Kirk will see you, sir,” said he. “I gave him your telephone message as soon as he came down.”

“Thank you, Stumph,” said Pendleton. And with the manner of one perfectly acquainted with the house, he ascended a massively balustraded staircase. The walls were darkly paneled; from the shadowy recesses pictured faces of men and women looked down at him.

Coming in from the littered street, with its high smells and crowding, gesticulating people, the house impressed one by its quiet, its spaciousness, and the evident means and culture of its owner. Pendleton turned off at the first landing, proceeded along a passage and finally knocked at a door. Without waiting for a reply, he walked in.

At the far end of a long, high-ceilinged apartment a young man was lounging in an easy-chair. At his elbow was a jar of tobacco, a sheaf of brown cigarette papers and a scattering of books. He lifted a keen dark face, lit up by singularly brilliant eyes.

With that he went to his room and to bed.

The dull gray of a damp spring morning was peering in at his window when he awoke. By the light he knew that it was hours before his usual time. Something had aroused him; but he could not say what. He sat up in bed, and as he did so there came the long continued and smothered ringing of a bell.

“The telephone,” said he.

“R‑r‑r‑r‑ring‑g!” it persisted. And then again: “R‑r‑r‑r‑ring‑ing‑ing! R‑r‑r‑ring!”

Ashton-Kirk heard a door open and close softly on the floor above; then slippered feet came pat-patting down the stairs. The wild rattle of the bell suddenly stopped; a muffled voice could be heard protesting dismally against the din. But suddenly the vague complaint gave way to a higher note.

“Alarm,” said Ashton-Kirk. “Something has happened.”

He reached up and turned on the electric bulb that hung above his head; then he drew his feet up under him after the fashion of a Turk and waited, calmly.

The padded steps swiftly approached his door; a sharp knock sounded on the panels.

“Well?” demanded the young man.

“There is an urgent call, sir,” came the voice of Stumph⁠—“on the telephone. It’s the lady who called yesterday⁠—Miss Vale.”

Ashton-Kirk slipped from the bed; a step brought him to the door, which he threw open.

“Very well, Stumph,” said he, quietly. “You may go back to bed.”

The grave-faced German went stolidly down the hall; the young man pulled on a pair of felt slippers; in the library he put the detached receiver to his ear and spoke evenly:

There were four good-sized windows in the showroom, all overlooking the street. It was a large, square place, and, as Miss Vale had said, literally stuffed with odd carvings, pottery of a most freakish sort, and weird bric-a-brac. Two large modern safes stood at one side, behind a long show case spread with ancient coins. At the end of this case was a carpeted space, railed in and furnished with a great flat-topped desk. Upon the floor at the foot of the desk, and with three separate streams of blood creeping away from it, lay the huddled, ghastly figure of a man.

Pendleton, though he had been warned, felt his breath catch and his skin grow cold and damp.

“Heavens!” said he, under his breath. “It’s the man whose picture we saw inside there on the wall.”

Even the shock of death could not, so it seemed, drive the sneer from the thick lips; mockery was frozen in the dead eyes.

“What a beast he must have been,” went on Pendleton. “Like a satyr. I don’t think I ever saw just that type of face before.”

Ashton-Kirk was bending over the body; suddenly he raised himself.

“There is a heavy bruise on the forehead,” said he. “He was felled first; then bayoneted.”

“Bayoneted!” Pendleton peered at the body.

“There it is, sticking from his chest.” Ashton-Kirk drew aside the breast of the dead man’s coat and his companion caught sight of a bronze hilt. The broad, sword-like blade had been driven completely home.

“If we attempted to move the body,” said the investigator, “I should not be surprised if we found it pinned to the floor. It took brawn to give that stroke; the man who dealt it made sure of the job.”

“And it wasn’t?”

“No, it was a private car⁠—a Maillard, and there was a woman driving it.”

The chair upon which Pendleton sat was an infirm one; it creaked sharply as he made a sudden movement.

“She was going at a low speed,” proceeded Sams, “and as she passed Hume’s I noticed her look up at the windows. After she disappeared there wasn’t a sound for a while. You see, nobody hardly ever passes through Christie Place after one o’clock. Then I hears her coming back. This time she stopped the car, got out and went to the door that leads into Hume’s place. There she stopped a little, as though she didn’t know whether to go in or not. But at last she went in.”

Pendleton coughed huskily at this point; and his friend glancing at him saw that his face was white.

“And up to that time,” said Ashton-Kirk, “are you sure that there was no movement⁠—no sound⁠—in the front room at Hume’s?”

“As far as I noticed, there wasn’t. But a few minutes after I heard the woman go in, I did hear some sounds.”

The man stroked his shaven jaws in the deliberate manner of a person about to precipitate a crisis. Pendleton leaned toward him, anxiously.

“What sort of sounds?” he asked.

“There were two,” replied the cab driver. “The first was a revolver shot; the second came right after, and was a kind of a scream⁠—like that of a parrot.”

“And what then?” asked Ashton-Kirk, easily.

“There wasn’t anything for a few minutes, anyway. But the revolver shot had kind of got my attention, so I was taking notice of the windows. Then suddenly I caught sight of the woman.

About half an hour after Ashton-Kirk had left the Vale mansion, a Maillard car drew up before the door. As it did so, an Italian laborer arose from the curb not far away where he had been comfortably seated with his back against a tree; then throwing his arms wide in a luxurious yawn, he started leisurely down the street.

Five minutes later, a veiled, dust-coated female figure descended the step; the driver of the Maillard was dismissed, and Miss Vale composedly took his place at the wheel. As the car started forward, the gauntleted hands guided it firmly; the steady eyes were set straight ahead as the lever was pushed first to one speed and then another.

And as the rapid pulse of the motor was borne along the quiet avenue, the Italian laborer calmly appeared from around a corner, pushing a powerful-looking motorcycle before him. Another moment and the machine was sounding its wild fusillade; the Italian sped away in the same direction as the Maillard, his battered soft hat set jauntily upon the back of his head, his gay-colored neckerchief streaming in the wind.

The car kept to the avenue for a long time; but finally in the far suburbs it made a sharp turn to the left and a few miles further on shot into a broad highway that ran parallel with the railroad.

Bending forward so as to offer the least resistance to the wind, the Italian’s swarthy face relaxed at this; his fine white teeth showed in a smile.

“Cordova, I think,” muttered he, in very good English. “If not, then somewhere very near to it.”