Grey Face, page 4
“Unnatural?” Carey echoed.
“That’s the word, unnatural. I know this is most unprofessional, but you don’t count. His skin, for instance. I don’t suppose you have ever examined his skin?”
“No, I have not, and I don’t want to.”
“No, of course, you wouldn’t,” Torrington murmured. “But from a physiological point of view, it is extraordinarily interesting.”
Carey’s perplexity was evident. “He has a very pale skin, hasn’t he?” he asked. “Some women seem to find him fascinating.”
“Damn it! He is fascinating!” Torrington cried. “But in the same way that a purple rattlesnake would be fascinating—or a new kind of poisonous spider. You see, Carey, I wasn’t quite referring to the colour of his skin, but to its quality. Hell!”—he rested his elbow on the mantelpiece—“it’s unnatural with that hair. But I suppose it would be difficult to make my point clear to you; it’s by way of being rather a technical one.”
“But what was the matter with Trepniak?” Carey urged.
“Ah!” Torrington continued his promenade. “That’s the point! What was the matter with him? My dear fellow!”—he turned, and speaking from the outer room—“I have no more idea than the man in the moon what was the matter with him!” He began to walk back. “As I followed the chief eunuch upstairs and through some of the most singularly appointed rooms I had ever seen in my life, I got a vague impression that there were numbers of people in the house—watching, but concealed. I never actually saw any one, you understand.”
“You mean other servants?” Carey suggested.
Torrington shook his head sharply, and sat down.
“Other servants, possibly, but I thought I heard odd sounds—unpleasant in some way. Really, Carey, on some pretext you must get into that house; damn it, you must! I don’t know if Trepniak entertains much. Imagine illustrations by Sidney Sime of some of the worst nightmares of Edgar Allan Poe. Well, it is like that. Finally, my guide, who was literally chattering with fright, paused before a door in a really delightful library—I mean, a well-appointed, sane library, containing, or so I gathered in a rapid glance around, some examples of the bookbinder’s art, which would probably fetch a small fortune at Christie’s. When I say he stopped before a door, Carey, I am not perhaps being quite accurate.”
Torrington resumed his restless promenade, speaking as he walked.
“It was really a sort of secret panel, and, when closed, no doubt would have defied detection, had one not known where to look for it. It was slightly ajar, though, and a tiny green lamp, set in a recess of the wall above it, looked just like the eye of a concealed animal. My guide pointed to the door and then to the light. His English was rather complex (he is some kind of gorgeous hybrid, probably with Greek in his make-up) but he gave me to understand that I should go in, but that he could not do so.
“Naturally enough, I asked, ‘Why?’ and paused on the threshold. His teeth began to chatter again at once. No one was allowed in the room beyond, I gathered, unless a certain bell rang and this lamp became lighted. At the same time, the door would automatically open a little way, and the duty then devolved upon this ornamental laddie to go and see what was the matter. Nothing of the kind had ever happened before, apparently during his term of office; and to cut a long story short, he was dead afraid to go in, but reported that he could get no answer from his master, although he knew him to be inside.
“Of course I pushed the door open and walked in, leaving the Russian Ballet in the library. I found myself in a room about the size of your study here; and I immediately became aware of two things: First, that this room revealed the real Trepniak, and that the rest of the house was mere shop window—for what purpose assumed, I could not imagine. Second—” Suddenly he paused in front of Carey, staring down at him, and smoking furiously. “Carey”—he spoke now slowly and impressively—“Carey, my lad, I sympathized with the chief eunuch. I had never in all my life wanted to bolt from anywhere as I wanted to bolt from that room!”
“Bolt!” Carey echoed, startled out of himself by his friend’s manner.
“Exactly. Bolt! Don’t ask me why, because I can’t tell you. It wasn’t mere squeamishness. I’ve seen vivisection before, and on a larger scale.”
“Vivisection?” Carey whispered.
Torrington nodded.
“You see,” he continued, “the place was indescribably untidy—oh, in comparison, my study is a model of neatness!—And it simply bulged with books of a scientific character. All sorts of apparatus littered the floor, the shelves, the chairs, everywhere. On a glass table in one corner a big quarto volume lay open. It was a work in German by the late Professor Hadrian von Giihl. You probably never heard of him?”
Carey shook his head.
“No,” Torrington murmured, “but the name of Gühl is one to conjure with in my trade. The greatest pathologist of his generation, my lad, or of any other generation. He died in Leipzig in the second year of the war, at an advanced age: he was well over eighty. Three of his works are classics. This one, open on Trepniak’s table, I had never seen before, but it was covered with marginal notes, possibly in the Professor’s hand; and fastened down upon a slab was a small lizard, which Trepniak had been engaged in dissecting.”
“Alive?”
“Yes, alive, but not conscious.”
“My God!”
Carey reached for the decanter and poured out a stiff peg. He offered to perform the same office for Torrington, but the latter waved his hand and continued to speak.
“Trepniak,” he continued, “was seated at the table, a lancet held in his right hand, whilst his left rested upon a bell push, by means of which he had evidently given the alarm. He wore an overall, above which I could see a dress collar and a white tie—and he was rigid.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Torrington repeated, grimly, “that he was rigid—like a man of stone—I couldn’t move him. His eyes were open and staring straight before him. Carey”—he bent forward, looking into the other’s face—“that man was dead!”
“Dead!”
“Dead, I tell you, if ever I saw a dead man! No respiration, no heart action—not a tremor. As I stood up, after a rapid examination, I should have been prepared to stake my reputation on it. His skin, Carey! How can I make you understand the phenomenon of the man’s skin. It so intrigued me that I examined it through a lens which he had been using. Listen. I think I can make myself clear in this way. There is not a particle of hair, or even down, upon his face and arms!”
Carey looked puzzled. “In this respect, then, Trepniak resembles a woman?” he suggested.
“Damn it!” cried Torrington, “in this respect he does not resemble a woman!” He shot out a pointing finger. “Produce a woman whose face, neck, and arms prove to be completely devoid of hair when examined through a powerful lens, and I will forfeit my income for a month!”
“Well”—Carey hesitated—“of course, I am rather out of my depth, but what about the albinos?”
“In leucosis,” Torrington shouted, “hair is present but colourless. Trepniak has the skin of an albino but no hair at all! Therefore”—he suddenly dropped his voice, and, resting one hand on the table, bent down close to Carey—“there is something more than ever phenomenal in the fact that his head is covered with close, tight, auburn curls!”
And now, even to the comparatively unscientific mind of Carey, recognition of this curious fact bore something of horror, and, strangely, of uncleanness.
“But,” he reverted, “you told me that Trepniak was dead.”
“Ha!” Torrington uttered a short, mirthless laugh. “Never jump to conclusions, my lad. Sometimes, if you’ve jumped to a wrong one, you may find it damned hard to jump back. He was dead—dead according to all the known laws. I was so satisfied of this that I found myself wondering about that fixed stare. He was staring, Carey, at the door of some inner room. Wondering if the explanation of the mystery lay there, I moved around the table toward it—a ponderous thing, like the door of a strong room. It was ajar, as the outer door had been, and I grasped the handle with the idea of opening it fully. The place beyond was quite dark. Well”—he resumed his restless march—“I got no farther than that. I couldn’t.”
“You mean,” said Carey in a puzzled fashion, “that the door wouldn’t open?”
“Oh, no! The door opened easily enough. I have an idea it communicated with a stair leading up to the little observatory place on the roof. I became aware of a sort of tremor, as of machinery in motion, and I think I detected a faint humming sound. But something—funk, if you like, or perhaps discretion—simply checked me on the threshold!”
“You mean that you were afraid to go any farther?”
“I do, Carey! I admit it: I dared not go any farther! I turned, intending to instruct the native butler to advise the police—and—” Torrington walked right to the other end of the room and back again; then: “Trepniak,” he continued very quietly, “had come to life!”
“Come to life!” Carey’s voice echoed, in an incredulous whisper.
“He was moving, and uttering inarticulate cries. His eyes rolled in their sockets, and suddenly he stood up, uttering a piercing scream. Phew!”
Torrington paused, stooped, and helped himself to whisky and soda.
“You remember when I was up at Edinburgh,” he went on. “I used to doubt if ever I should capture ‘the professional manner’? Well, I have managed it, Carey, for I successfully assumed it to-night, round there in Park Lane—my heart beating like a hammer—facing that dead man come to life. Trepniak began to babble in some language I had never heard spoken before—it was not European—staring right through me at the door which I had meant to open. Then he said something in German. His manner was that of a medium under control. At last the light of sanity returned to his eyes. He looked about him, stared at me, then fell back in his chair—and I achieved the professional manner. ‘Sit quite still,’ I said to him, ‘and don’t excite yourself. You are all right now.’
“‘Who are you?” he mumbled. ‘What are you doing here?’
“‘I am Dr. Muir Torrington, and I was called in by your servant. You have been ill, but you are better.’
“He looked at me for a moment, Carey, as if he contemplated an assault. Then, groaning, he recovered entire possession of himself. He forced a really poisonous smile, and asked me an extraordinary question.”
“What was it?”
“He said, ‘when did you leave Egypt?’”
“But you have never been in Egypt!”
“I told him so; and he looked as though he found my assurance hard to accept. But finally he seemed to realize that I was speaking the truth; and if I had granted him a new lease of life he could not have appeared more gratified. Hell!”
He threw himself into the rest chair, and both men were silent for a few moments, then:
“Did he offer any explanation?” Carey asked.
Torrington nodded.
“Yes, an absurd one. He told me that he suffered from an hereditary tendency to catalepsy! Then he glanced at the lizard (which, by the way, I had put out of its misery) and apologized for the nature of his private studies. He assured me that the attack would probably not occur again for years; in short, made it crystal clear that his highest ambition at the moment was to get rid of me.
“Well, I was not sorry to humour him, and never having felt so much need of human companionship for years, I was delighted to find you up. Because tonight I have been face to face with things which have shown me how little I know. With all my high-sounding degrees, old lad, I recognize that I am a child. Round there, in that house in Park Lane, I have seen the accepted laws of the schools set at defiance. Who is Trepniak?—or, rather, what is he? Carey”—he suddenly got upon his feet again—“that man was dead to-night—dead; yet, now, he is alive!”
CHAPTER VI
A LUNCHEON
“But do you mean, Daddy,” asked Jasmine, “that I am not to go to Switzerland with the Mersons?”
“I do,” her father returned gravely.
The girl looked at him with more than a hint of rebellion in her eyes.
“Did you ask me to meet you at the Ritz for lunch,” she enquired in a plaintive tone, “just to play horrid parent?”
Sir Provost smiled indulgently. He was convinced that some hidden danger threatened Jasmine. She was modern, without having achieved a burlesque of that femininity which was her heritage; nor had he sought, hitherto, to check her independence. Somewhere, in the maze of her social interests, lay the clue to a mystery which, as daily became more evident, demanded solution. Yet Sir Provost hesitated to employ those powers of mental dissection which had placed him at the head of his chosen branch of therapeutics. Since the happiness of his daughter was concerned, he might reasonably have turned the strange searchlight of hypnotism upon her brain, conscious and subconscious, and thus, perhaps, have come upon a clue. But he was oddly reluctant.
“I want you to accept your aunt’s invitation,” he replied, “for a very particular reason.”
“But,” the girl protested, looking about her desperately, as if in quest of some friend amid the lunching throng, “I believe you asked Aunt Phil to send the invitation!”
“All the more reason why you should accept it, dear,” continued Sir Provost. “Oh, it won’t be so dull. They’re in the throes of an election. You will be able to convass for the Conservative ex-member!”
“I won’t,” said Jasmine, mockly rebellious. “I shall take up the cause of Labour!”
“Good!” Sir Provost laughed. “As there is no Labour candidate, you will have to seek election in person! But”—he grew suddenly serious—“you will go, dear, won’t you? Believe me, there is a reason.”
“I hate being reasonable!” muttered the girl. “You don’t mean that I am to go in the morning?”
“But I do,” Sir Provost declared. “You can go down by road. I am having Talbot ready to start at ten o’clock. Is that too early for you?”
“Too early by days and days!” Jasmine assured him. “My dear Daddy, I am fully booked up right to the end of the week. Oh—” She leaned forward and caressed his hand, which rested Upon the table. “Make it next Monday morning, and I will really, really go down for a few days to Aunt Phil”—she paused—“if you want me to”—another pause; “although I cannot imagine why you should.”
And now, her father, keenly watching her, detected a swift change of expression, and this, he knew, corresponded to some thought conjured up by her reference to the end of the week.
“I should guess,” he said, smiling, “that you have an engagement with Douglas Carey on Saturday.”
Jasmine pressed her lips tightly together, looking aside, and:
“I had,” she admitted. “We were to have dined at the Carlton and gone to His Majesty’s and from there to the Grafton. But—”
“Well,” Sir Provost prompted, deliberately misunderstanding, “is it because I ask you to cancel this engagement that you are so loth to go to Surrey?”
Jasmine shook her head scornfully.
“I had already cancelled it,” she replied. “I never want to see Douglas Carey again.”
“Really!”
Her father spoke lightly, hoping to provoke her into further confidences. “I thought you were great friends?”
“So we were,” Jasmine admitted. “But when I catch a man telling deliberate lies—really, I lose all interest in him.”
“And did Carey tell you deliberate lies?”
“Yes.” Jasmine bit her lip, and looking aimlessly down at the table, rolled a crumb Upon the cloth—“which wasn’t in the least necessary, because, naturally, he is at liberty to choose his own friends.”
“Ah,” Sir Provost murmured. He had learned more than he had hoped to learn. “You mean about Madame Sabinov?”
Jasmine looked startled; and:
“I didn’t know you knew her, Daddy,” she said.
“I don’t,” Sir Provost replied. “But she has a professional appointment with me at three this afternoon. So that you see I am to make her acquaintance within the next hour.”
“But, about Douglas,” Jasmine continued, watching him closely—“you have heard about them, too, then?”
“I have heard,” replied Sir Provost, speaking very deliberately, “that Carey met Madame Sabinov at a supper party recently—that he had never seen her before and has never seen her since.”
“It isn’t true,” Jasmine declared quietly.
And as she spoke, one watching Sir Provost, who had known the man, must have realized that he deemed her words more weighty than they seemed. That searching professional look came into his eyes, and he studied her, as she sat, glance averted, looking very miserable. It was not because, unwittingly, she was revealing her interest in Douglas Carey that he regarded her in this fashion. There was another reason. He knew that, at last, he was almost within reaching distance of a link in the chain. Strange influences were at work, influences subtle but far-reaching.
Sir Provost regarded Muir Torrington as one of the young men of his profession who counted, and from Muir Torrington he had learned the story of the ’phone messages which were never received—and of the note which on delivery had proved to be a sheet of blank paper. He had learned more than this; and he was of those who count prevention better than cure.
“You may realize one day, Jasmine,” he said gravely, “that you misjudge Carey.”
“You don’t know him!” the girl returned bitterly. “Oh, he’s full of blarney!—that was why he came to see you so early in the morning!”
“On the contrary,” her father replied, “he came to see me professionally.”
“But, Daddy,” Jasmine exclaimed, regarding him with wide-open eyes which mirrored a sudden concern, “but—he is not ill?”
“No, no,” Sir Provost assured her, “he is not ill. He is merely the victim of a powerful enemy.”
