The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

kept saying it over and over again, in that queer lingo of his. ‘Waterloo Railway Station, Waterloo Railway Station.’ ‘All right,’ said Ellis, ‘I’ll drive you to Waterloo Railway Station right enough, only I’m not going to have that bundle of yours inside my cab. There isn’t room for it, so you put it on the roof.’ ‘To Waterloo Railway Station,’ said the Arab, ‘I take my bundle with me to Waterloo Railway Station⁠—I take it with me.’ ‘Who says you don’t take it with you?’ said Ellis. ‘You can take it, and twenty more besides, for all I care, only you don’t take it inside my cab⁠—put it on the roof.’ ‘I take it with me to Waterloo Railway Station,’ said the Arab, and there they were, wrangling and jangling, and neither seeming to be able to make out what the other was after, and the people all laughing.”

“Waterloo Railway Station⁠—you are sure that was what he said?”

“I’ll take my oath to it, because I said to myself, when I heard it, ‘I wonder what you’ll have to pay for that little lot, for the District Railway Station’s outside the four-mile radius.’ ” As we drove off I was inclined to ask myself, a little bitterly⁠—and perhaps unjustly⁠—if it were not characteristic of the average London policeman to almost forget the most important part of his information⁠—at any rate to leave it to the last and only to bring it to the front on having his palm crossed with silver.

As the hansom bowled along we three had what occasionally approached a warm discussion.

“Marjorie was in that bundle,” began Lessingham, in the most lugubrious of tones, and with the most woebegone of faces.

“I doubt it,” I observed.

“She was⁠—I feel it⁠—I know it. She was either dead and mutilated, or gagged and drugged and helpless. All that remains is vengeance.”

“I repeat that I doubt it.”

Atherton struck in.

“I am bound to say, with the best will in the world to think otherwise, that I agree with Lessingham.”

“You are wrong.”

“It’s all very well for you to talk in that cocksure way, but it’s easier for you to say I’m wrong than to prove it. If I am wrong, and if Lessingham’s wrong, how do you explain his extraordinary insistance on taking it inside the cab with him, which the bobby describes? If there wasn’t something horrible, awful in that bundle of his, of which he feared the discovery, why was he so reluctant to have it placed upon the roof?”

“There probably was something in it which he was particularly anxious should not be discovered, but I doubt if it was anything of the kind which you suggest.”

“Here is Marjorie in a house alone⁠—nothing has been seen of her since⁠—her clothing, her hair, is found hidden away under the floor. This scoundrel sallies forth with a huge bundle on his head⁠—the bobby speaks of it being five or six feet long, or longer⁠—a bundle which he regards with so much solicitude that he insists on never allowing it to go, for a single instant, out of his sight and reach. What is in the thing? don’t all the facts most unfortunately point in one direction?”

Mr. Lessingham covered his face with his hands, and groaned.

“I fear that Mr. Atherton is right.”

“I differ from you both.”

Sydney at once became heated.

“Then perhaps you can tell us what was in the bundle?”

“I fancy I could make a guess at the contents.”

“Oh you could, could you, then, perhaps, for our sakes, you’ll make it⁠—and not play the oracular owl!⁠—Lessingham and I are interested in this business, after all.”

“It contained the bearer’s personal property: that, and nothing more. Stay! before you jeer at me, suffer me to finish. If I am not mistaken as to the identity of the person whom the constable describes as the Arab, I apprehend that the contents of that bundle were of much more importance to him than if they had consisted of Miss Lindon, either dead or living. More. I am inclined to suspect that if the bundle was placed on the roof of the cab, and if the driver did meddle with it, and did find out the contents, and understand them, he would have been driven, out of hand, stark staring mad.”

Sydney was silent, as if he reflected. I imagine he perceived there was something in what I said.

“But what has become of Miss Lindon?”

“I fancy that Miss Lindon, at this moment, is⁠—somewhere; I don’t, just now, know exactly where, but I hope very shortly to be able to give you a clearer notion⁠—attired in a rotten, dirty pair of boots; a filthy, tattered pair of trousers; a ragged, unwashed apology for a shirt; a greasy, ancient, shapeless coat; and a frowsy peaked cloth cap.”

They stared at me, opened-eyed. Atherton was the first to speak.

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean that it seems to me that the facts point in the direction of my conclusions rather than yours⁠—and that very strongly too. Miss Coleman asserts that she saw Miss London return into the house; that within a few minutes the blind was replaced at the front window; and that shortly after a young man, attired in the costume I have described, came walking out of the front door. I believe that young man was Miss Marjorie Lindon.”

Lessingham and Atherton both broke out into interrogations, with Sydney, as usual, loudest.

“But⁠—man alive! what on earth should make her do a thing like that? Marjorie, the most retiring, modest girl on all God’s earth, walk about in broad daylight, in such a costume, and for no reason at all! my dear Champnell, you are suggesting that she first of all went mad.”

“She was in a state of trance.”

“Good God!⁠—Champnell!”

“Well?”

“Then you think that⁠—juggling villain did get hold of her?”

“Undoubtedly. Here is my view of the case, mind it is only a hypothesis and you must take it for what it is worth. It seems to me quite clear that the Arab, as we will call the person for