A Queen's Error, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  THE MAN WITH THE GLASS EYE

  I took a note of the number of the house--it was 190 MonmouthStreet--and gazed a little while at its neglected exterior before Iwalked away into the mist towards my hotel.

  Over the whole of the front windows faded Venetian blinds were drawndown; it was one of those houses, sometimes met with, shut up for noapparent reason, and without any intention on the part of the owner,apparently, to dispose of it, for there was no board up. It was notuntil later that I learned that the house belonged to the old ladyherself.

  I returned to my hotel, that luxurious resort of the wealthy andrheumatic, its well furnished interior looking particularly comfortablein the ruddy glow of two immense fires in the hall. I had left itearly in the afternoon, before the lamps were lit, tired of beingindoors; the change was most agreeable from the damp, misty atmospherewithout.

  I betook myself to the smoking-room, and, being a lover of thebeverage, ordered tea, with the addition of buttered toast. Delightedwith the big glowing fire in the room, and believing myself to bealone, I threw myself back luxuriously into a big, saddle-bag chair.

  As it ran back with the impetus of my descent into it, it jammed intoone behind, and from this immediately arose a very indignant face whichlooked into mine as I turned round. It was a dark, foreign-lookingface, the red face of a man who wore a black moustache and a littleimperial, and whose bloodshot brown eyes simply _glared_ through a pairof gold-rimmed pince-nez. There was something very strange about theseeyes.

  "I really beg your pardon," I said. "I didn't know you were there!"

  The fierce expression of the bloodshot eyes changed to one of somewhatforced amiability.

  "Pray don't apologise," he answered, with just the merest touch of aforeign accent in his voice, that sort of undetectable accent whichsome men of cosmopolitan habits possess, though they are rarely metwith.

  "I think I must have been asleep," he added, "and the little shockawoke me from a disagreeable dream. There is really so little to do inthis place besides bathing and sleeping."

  "And water drinking," I suggested, with a smile.

  "I do as little of that," he answered hastily, with a grimace, "as Ipossibly can. By the bye though," he continued, wheeling round hischair sociably beside mine, "do you know that the Bath water taken_hot_ with a good dash of whisky in it and two lumps of sugar is nothalf bad?"

  I took a good look at his face as he sat leering at me through hisglasses. From the congested look of it, I could quite believe that hehad sampled this mixture, or others of a similar alcoholic nature,sufficiently to give an opinion on the point; his bloodshot eyes alsotestified to the fact.

  But concerning these latter features, the reason of the curious lookabout them was solved by the firelight; one of them was of glass! Isaw that it remained stationary whilst the other leered round thecorner of the gold-rimmed pince-nez at me. It was a very goodimitation, and was made _bloodshot_ to match the other.

  My tea and buttered toast arrived now, and I made a vigorous attackupon the latter.

  "The idea of mixing whisky with Bath water," I replied, laughing,"never struck me. It appears novel."

  "I can assure you," continued my new acquaintance, "that many of theold men who are ordered here to Bath do it, and I should not besurprised to hear that it is a practice among the old ladies too. Lookat their faces as they come waddling down to table d'hote!"

  This appeared to me rather a disrespectful remark with regard to theopposite sex, and I answered him somewhat stiffly, "I hope you aredeceived."

  He was not a tactful person by any means: he made an observation thenconcerning my tea and buttered toast.

  "I really wonder," he said, "how you can drink that stuff," with a nodtowards my cup. "It would make me sick; put it away and have a whiskyand soda with me?"

  I naturally considered this a very rude remark from a perfect stranger.

  "I am much obliged," I snapped, "but I prefer tea."

  At that moment I put my hand in my pocket for my cigarette case. Ithought I would give this man one to stop his tiresome talking; as Ipulled it out the key of the safe which the old lady had given me fellout with it. Before I could stoop and pick it up myself the man withthe glass eye had got it. He put it up close to his good eye andexamined it critically. "What an extraordinary key!" he observed."Where did you get it?"

  Then he saw the letter C which was worked among the elaborate traceryof the handle, and he became greatly agitated.

  "Where did you get this from?" he repeated abruptly.

  I did not answer; I got up from my seat and took the key out of hishand; he was by no means willing to part with it.

  "Excuse me," I said.

  Then with the key safe in my pocket and my hand over it, I walked outof the smoking-room, leaving behind me two pieces of buttered toast andperhaps a cup and a half of excellent tea all wasted.

  I am a delicately constituted individual, and I preferred smoking mycigarette all alone in a corner of the big hall, to consuming my usualallowance of tea and buttered toast in the society of the glass-eyedperson in the smoking-room. I considered that I was doing a littleintellectual fast all by myself.

  I saw nothing more of my friend of the false brown optic that evening,except that I observed his bloodshot eye of the flesh fixed scathinglyupon me from a remote corner of the great dining-room, where heappeared to be dining mostly off a large bottle of champagne.

  I sauntered away my evening as I had done the others of my first week's"cure" in Bath, making a fair division of it between the dining-room,the smoking-room and the reading-room. I did not go near thedrawing-room; its occupants consisted solely of a few obese ladies ofthe type referred to by the gentleman with the glass eye, wearing suchpalpable wigs that my artistic susceptibilities were sorely wounded atthe mere sight of them, and my sense of decency outraged.

  I went to bed in my great room over-looking the river and the weir, andI lay awake listening to its rushing waters, for the night was warm andalmost summer-like, as it happens sometimes in a fine November, and mywindows were open.

  I suppose I fell asleep, for when I was again conscious, the Abbeyclock struck four; at the same moment I became aware that some one wasin my room. I could discern the figure of a man in the shadow of thewardrobe near the chair on which I had placed my clothes when I tookthem off. I leant over the side of the bed and switched on theelectric light; the figure turned. It was the dark man with the glasseye!

  "What the devil are you doing in my room?" I asked in none too polite atone.

  He was not at all disconcerted, but stood looking at me, replacing hispince-nez.

  "Well, really," he replied, "wonders will never cease. I thought I wasin my own room!"

  I knew he was lying.

  "I fail to perceive," I said, sitting up in bed, "in what manner youcould have mistaken this room for your own. In the first place thedoor is locked."

  "Just so," remarked my visitor, "that's exactly where it is; I came inat the window."

  "The window?" I repeated.

  "Yes, the window. I couldn't sleep, so took a stroll up and down thebalconies, and when I returned to my room, as I thought, I came in hereby mistake."

  The excuse was plausible, but I didn't believe a word of it. I was ina dilemma, and sat scratching my head. I could not prove that the manwas lying, and therefore had to take his word.

  "Very well, then," I said in a compromising tone, "having made themistake, and it being now nearly five, perhaps you will be able to findyour way back to your room and go to sleep."

  I thought I was putting the request in as polite a manner as possible,and I expected him to move off at once.

  He did nothing of the kind. With a quick movement of his hand to hiship, he produced a revolver and covered me with it.

  "Where's that key?" he asked.

  He took my breath away for a few moments and I couldn't answer him,then I regained my presence of min
d.

  "What key?" I asked, though I had a pretty shrewd idea as to the key hewanted.

  "The key which dropped out of your pocket this afternoon."

  "I don't keep it in bed with me," I replied. "I'll get out and fetchit for you, you are quite welcome to it."

  I temporised with him, but I was perfectly determined in my own mindthat he should never have it while I lived.

  I slipped out of bed and he still held the pistol pointed towards mebut in a careless way. I think he was thrown off his guard by myapparent acquiescence.

  The clock of the Abbey struck five and he involuntarily turned his headat the first stroke; in that moment I made a sweeping blow with my leftarm and knocked the revolver out of his hand; it fell with a crash onthe floor. Then I seized him by the throat and tried to hold him. Hewas, however, like an eel; he wriggled himself free and struck me aheavy blow on the chest which sent me backwards, then he turned anddarted towards the window, but as he did so I heard something fall onthe floor. For one second his hand went down on the floor groping forit, then, with a curse, he snatched up the revolver, which lay near,and darted out of the window on to the balcony. It all occurred in afew moments, and I followed him as quickly as I could, but when Ireached the window I saw him flying along the balcony; he had alreadycleared several of the little divisions railing off one apartment fromanother, and I could see it would be useless to follow him.

  As I turned and re-entered the bedroom something lying on the floorcaught my glance and I stooped and picked it up.

  It was the man's glass eye, it had dropped out!

  "Now," I said to myself, surveying the bloodshot counterfeit orb as Iheld it under the electric light. "_Now_ I shall be able to trace himby means of his missing eye and hand him over to justice."

  I was fated to be disappointed.

  Late the next morning when, having passed the remainder of the nightsleeplessly, I came down the main staircase into the hall, almost thefirst person I met was my friend of the glass eye coming in at thefront door. He had apparently just left a cab from which the hotelporters were removing some luggage. He came straight to me, and,looking me in the face, had the impudence to bid me "Good morning."

  "Went over to Bristol last night," he explained, "for a ball, and haveonly just got back. Had awful fun!"

  I returned his look for some time without speaking; he had anotherglass eye stuck in which was the counterpart of the other. I saw nowclearly that he had two or more glass eyes for emergencies.

  "Bristol!" I repeated. "Did you not come into my room last nightand----?"

  "And what?" he asked innocently.

  "And threaten me?" I added.

  He seemed highly amused.

  "Do you mean before I went?" he asked.

  "No, about four o'clock this morning."

  This time he burst out laughing.

  "My dear fellow," he said with impertinent familiarity, "at fouro'clock this morning I was dancing like mad with some of the prettiestgirls in Bristol!"

  Liar! It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him whether his glass eyehad fallen out during his terpsichorean efforts! It was, however,perfectly evident to me that he intended to deny that he had been inthe hotel during the night, and probably had had time to establish somesort of an _alibi_. I therefore decided to move cautiously in thematter.

  I turned on my heel and went into the dining-room to breakfast withoutanother word.

  But I made it my business during the morning to inquire of the hallporter, who I found had been on duty up to eleven o'clock on theprevious night, whether Mr. Saumarez--for that I discovered was thename he had entered in the hotel visitors' book--had left the hotel onthe previous evening.

  The porter unhesitatingly informed me that he had to go to a ball atBristol!

  Really, when I left this man I began to wonder whether I had beendreaming, until I recollected the glass eye which was securely lockedup in my dressing-case, such things not being produced in dreams andfound under the pillow in the morning wrapped in an old telegram asthis had been.

  I went next to the chambermaid who presided over the corridor in whichMr. Saumarez' room was.

  Being a good-looking girl I gave her half-a-crown and chucked her underthe chin.

  "Look here, Maria," I said, "just tell me whether 340, Mr. Saumarez,was in or not last night. I'm rather curious to know and have got abet on about it with a friend."

  She looked at me knowingly and giggled.

  "Why, _out_, sir, of course," she replied; "he came in at half-past tenthis morning with his boots unblacked. We all know what _that_ means."

  This evidence to me appeared conclusive. I gave the chambermaid aparting chuck under the chin--no one being about--and dismissed her.

  Then, it being a fine morning, I went out for a walk.

  I went right over the hills by Sham Castle and across the Golf Links,being heartily sworn at--in the distance--by sundry retired officersfor not getting out of the way. But I was trying to have a good thinkover Mr. Saumarez, his duplicate glass eyes, and the reason why hewanted the key of the old lady's safe.

  I so tired myself out with walking and thinking, with no result, thatwhen I got back and had lunched late all by myself in the bigdining-room, I went into the smoking-room, which this time was quiteempty, and fell asleep in front of the great fire.

  My sleep was curiously broken and unrestful, and full of that undefinedcold apprehension which sometimes attacks one without any apparentreason during an afternoon nap.

  I awoke at last to hear the old Abbey clock striking five, and then Inearly jumped out of my seat, for I recollected my promise to theunknown old lady in Monmouth Street to visit her again that day at thatvery hour.

  I hurried through the hall to the coat room, and, seizing my hat,rushed out and just caught a tram which was gliding past in thedirection of the upper town where Monmouth Street stretched its lengthalong the slope of the hill.

  It was only three minutes past five when the gaily lighted tramdeposited me at the end of my old lady's street, and I set off forNumber 190, which was at the other extremity of the long, badly lightedthoroughfare, looking, with its interminable rows of oblong windows,like an odd corner of the eighteenth century which had been left behindin the march of time.

  I found the house practically as I had left it; there was no fog thatevening, and I had a better opportunity of observing its generalappearance in the yellow flare of the old-fashioned gas lamp opposite.

  The house on one side of it was to be let, with a large staring boardannouncing that fact fixed to the railings; the house on the other sidewas a dingy looking place with lace curtains shrouding the dining-roomwindows and a notice outside concerning "Apartments."

  I drew out the latch-key, blew in it to cleanse it from any dust, then,with very little difficulty, opened the door and entered Number 190.