Grey Face/Chapter 28

ERY well," said Muir Torrington, speaking somewhat irritably, "I will be there as soon as possible. My car is locked up and I don't suppose for a moment that I shall find a taxi at three o'clock in the morning. But in any event I shall not be longer than ten minutes."

He hung up the receiver, returned to his table, and glanced regretfully at a large volume which lay open there, a sheet of pencilled notes beside it. He had been utterly absorbed in his task, hence the lateness of the hour; and this unexpected call upon his professional services was by no means welcome.

However, Mrs. Jack Lewisham, a recently acquired patient, was not to be denied. She represented a key to many doors hitherto closed to the young practitioner who so daringly had raised his flag in the heart of fashionable London. He closed the big volume, revealing the title: Atomic Pathology-Gühl, marked the place with his page of notes, and knocked out his pipe.

Then, discarding his dressing gown, he resumed his coat and started for the door.

From the man-servant who had called him he had been unable to gather many useful particulars, but the man was evidently frightened, which was significant. Now, as he crossed from Conduit Street into Bruton Street, where a constable with whom he was acquainted gave him a cheery "Good morning, sir," he wondered if by chance Carey had also been burning the midnight oil.

Opposite his friend's rooms he paused for a moment, looking up at the windows; but he could discern no light, and he proceeded rapidly on his way. As he had anticipated, no cab appeared, but the distance was not great to Mrs. Lewisham's flat in Mount Street, and Torrington, approaching, found every window illuminated.

He was admitted without delay by a partially dressed man-servant whose pale, frightened face occasioned Torrington a sudden uneasiness. Therefore:

"What is the matter with Mrs. Lewisham?" he asked. "Has she met with an accident?"

"No, sir," the man replied. "Thank God, you are here. They can't wake her, sir!"

"Who are 'they'?" Torrington demanded, mounting the stairs.

"The women servants, sir."

"Major Lewisham is away, then?"

"Yes, sir, in Ireland."

They were in the lobby now, where a woman, probably the cook, wrapped in a flowered dressing gown, was seated shivering with cold, or fright, or both. As the man closed the door:

"Tell me briefly," said Torrington, "what happened. Did Mrs. Lewisham call for help?"

"No, sir," was the reply. "It wasn't that. It was the dogs that woke us."

"The dogs?"

"There are four kept in the flat, sir."

"I know," Torrington interjected.

"Well, sir, about half an hour ago they all started howling. It woke everybody. Everybody, that is, except Mrs. Lewisham. The women woke me up—I'm a heavy sleeper, you see—and told me that Nanette, Madame's maid, had knocked at her door and could get no reply."

"Where were the dogs?" Torrington interrupted.

"In a room at the back of the kitchen, sir, where they sleep."

"Oh, I see; go on."

"Well, it seemed very funny with all that howling, and after I had banged for a long time on her door, I ventured to open it. I turned on the light by the switch inside and then Nanette plucked up courage and went in. Just as she did so, and while the rest of us were standing in the hall, I thought I saw something moving on the balcony outside the window."

"Something? What sort of thing?"

"Well, sir"—the man hesitated—"I suppose it was the excitement, but it looked to me like a big monkey!"

"A big monkey?"

"Yes, sir, it sounds absurd, I know."

"What did you do?"

"Well, I couldn't go into Madame's bedroom, but I just heard Nanette cry out, 'What's the matter with Madame? I can't wake her,' and then I ran along to the next door, that of the Major's dressing room, which also opens on the balcony, sir, crossed to the window, and looked out."

"See anything?" asked Torrington.

"Yes, sir, I did. There was a funny-looking man, a stooping man, dressed in black, hurrying along Mount Street, not twenty yards away. He carried a bag."

"You opened the window, then, and went out on to the balcony."

"I did, yes, sir."

"Can you give me no better description of this man?" Torrington asked excitedly.

"I am afraid not, sir. He disappeared into the next turning, but he was a horrible-looking person."

"Right," said Torrington, "I will see you later."

He walked rapidly across to a door on the left, opened it, and entered Mrs. Lewisham's bedroom.

A wild-eyed Frenchwoman, whom he recognized as Nanette, her maid, and an older woman whom he had not seen before, were bending over the bed. In it Mrs. Lewisham lay, and for a moment Torrington feared the worst. Her high colour had fled and her face was deathly pale.

"Oh! Doctor, Doctor!" cried the Frenchwoman. "I think she is dead!"

Torrington raised a limp wrist, paused for a moment, and could detect a faint pulse. There was a strong smell of Eau de Cologne, with which, evidently, the women had been endeavouring to revive their mistress. A wineglassful of brandy stood upon the side table. Torrington looked across at the older woman. She was concerned but self-possessed. Therefore:

"Nanette," he said, "you can go now. I will call if I want you."

"Oh! Monsieur" she began.

"Please go," said Torrington.

Nanette went, wringing her hands despairfully, and he turned to the other servant.

"Tell me all you know of this matter," he directed.

And whilst the woman, in a hushed voice, did so, he listened to the beating of his patient's heart and slowly grew more and more puzzled. The pulse was small and hard and the extremities were cold. Torrington asked the anxious woman a number of professional questions without eliciting anything useful.

The superstitious construction put upon the howling of the dogs was to be read in the faces of all the members of the household. But the odd circumstance had merely added to Torrington's mystification, until the story of that slinking figure in Mount Street had aroused a dormant memory.

In what way did he associate such a figure with the howling of dogs?

Suddenly, now, as he bent over the unconscious woman, the two happenings formed a contact and the memory was rekindled. On that night in Limehouse, when the half-caste had died, somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood a dog had been howling mournfully!

He looked down with strained attention at the pale face of Mrs. Lewisham; then'

"Help me to lift her up," he directed—"gently."

They raised her, a seemingly lifeless thing; and a rapid examination revealed a significant but horrible fact. She bore a mark resembling that made by a hypodermic needle, identical with the mark found at the post mortem upon the body of the woman who had died in Chinatown! The train of evidence was complete.

"Good God!" Torrington muttered under his breath.

He was face to face with a crisis in his professional career. Every moment was of value, yet knowing what he knew of the complexity of the case, he rejected, one after another, every remedy that occurred to him. If Mrs. Lewisham died, his career would be ruined, for he would be accused of neglecting the most obvious and elementary specifics. He closed his eyes in a tremendous effort of concentration. He had assisted at the post-mortem examination in the East End, and he was endeavouring to visualize the salient features of the case.

The organs had been healthy with the exception of the brain; the condition of the latter had been obscure and unusual. Torrington groaned inwardly. His patient's life was at stake, and he knew it well. Inertia on his part meant her death; the wrong remedy could only hasten it.

Therefore he must sail upon uncharted seas, trusting to guess-work or inspiration to guide him. He opened his eyes and looked down again at the patient. Then:

"Quickly," he said, "fill a bath with boiling hot water and tell the man out there to dress. I am sending him to my house. He must run all the way there and all the way back. Where is the telephone?"