The Second Victorian Mystery Megapack, page 74
“Pardon me,” he said, “but I believe you are waiting for your maid Hudson?”
As though fearing an impertinence, the girl regarded him in silence.
“I only wish to make sure,” continued Philip, “that you are she for whom I have a message. You have an appointment, I believe, to be photographed in fancy dress as Mary Queen of Scots?”
“Well?” assented the girl.
“And you telephoned Hudson,” he continued, “to bring you your muff.”
The girl exclaimed with vexation.
“Oh!” she protested; “I knew they’d get it wrong! Not muff, ruff! I want my ruff.”
Philip felt a cold shiver creep down his spine.
“For the love of Heaven!” he exclaimed in horror; “it’s true!”
“What’s true?” demanded the young woman in some alarm.
“That I’m a mind reader,” declared Philip. “I’ve read your mind! I can read everybody’s mind. I know just what you’re thinking now. You’re thinking I’m mad!”
The actions of the young lady showed that again he was correct. With a gasp of terror she fled past him and raced up the stairs to the studio. Philip made no effort to follow and to explain. What was there to explain? How could he explain that which, to himself, was unbelievable? Besides, the girl had served her purpose. If he could read the mind of one, he could read the minds of all. By some unexplainable miracle, to his ordinary equipment of senses a sixth had been added. As easily as, before that morning, he could look into the face of a fellow-mortal, he now could look into the workings of that fellow-mortal’s mind. The thought was appalling. It was like living with one’s ear to a key-hole. In his dismay his first idea was to seek medical advice—the best in London. He turned instantly in the direction of Harley Street. There, he determined, to the most skilled alienist in town he would explain his strange plight. For only as a misfortune did the miracle appear to him. But as he made his way through the streets his pace slackened.
Was he wise, he asked himself, in allowing others to know he possessed this strange power? Would they not at once treat him as a madman? Might they not place him under observation, or even deprive him of his liberty? At the thought he came to an abrupt halt His own definition of the miracle as a “power” had opened a new line of speculation. If this strange gift (already he was beginning to consider it more leniently) were concealed from others, could he not honorably put it to some useful purpose? For, among the blind, the man with one eye is a god. Was not he—among all other men the only one able to read the minds of all other men—a god? Turning into Bruton Street, he paced its quiet length considering the possibilities that lay within him.
It was apparent that the gift would lead to countless embarrassments. If it were once known that he possessed it, would not even his friends avoid him? For how could any one, knowing his most secret thought was at the mercy of another, be happy in that other’s presence? His power would lead to his social ostracism. Indeed, he could see that his gift might easily become a curse. He decided not to act hastily, that for the present he had best give no hint to others of his unique power.
As the idea of possessing this power became more familiar, he regarded it with less aversion. He began to consider to what advantage he could place it. He could see that, given the right time and the right man, he might learn secrets leading to far-reaching results. To a statesman, to a financier, such a gift as he possessed would make him a ruler of men. Philip had no desire to be a ruler of men; but he asked himself how could he bend this gift to serve his own? What he most wished was to marry Helen Carey; and, to that end, to possess money. So he must meet men who possessed money, who were making money. He would put questions to them. And with words they would give evasive answers; but their minds would tell him the truth.
The ethics of this procedure greatly disturbed him. Certainly it was no better than reading other people’s letters. But, he argued, the dishonor in knowledge so obtained would lie only in the use he made of it. If he used it without harm to him from whom it was obtained and with benefit to others, was he not justified in trading on his superior equipment? He decided that each case must be considered separately in accordance with the principle involved. But, principle or no principle, he was determined to become rich. Did not the end justify the means? Certainly an all-wise Providence had not brought Helen Carey into his life only to take her away from him. It could not be so cruel. But, in selecting them for one another, the all-wise Providence had overlooked the fact that she was rich and he was poor. For that oversight Providence apparently was now endeavoring to make amends. In what certainly was a fantastic and roundabout manner Providence had tardily equipped him with a gift that could lead to great wealth. And who was he to fly in the face of Providence? He decided to set about building up a fortune, and building it in a hurry.
From Bruton Street he had emerged upon Berkeley Square; and, as Lady Woodcote had invited him to meet Helen at luncheon at the Ritz, he turned in that direction. He was too early for luncheon; but in the corridor of the Ritz he knew he would find persons of position and fortune, and in reading their minds he might pass the time before luncheon with entertainment, possibly with profit. For, while pacing Bruton Street trying to discover the principles of conduct that threatened to hamper his new power, he had found that in actual operation it was quite simple. He learned that his mind, in relation to other minds, was like the receiver of a wireless station with an unlimited field. For, while the wireless could receive messages only from those instruments with which it was attuned, his mind was in key with all other minds. To read the thoughts of another, he had only to concentrate his own upon that person; and to shut off the thoughts of that person, he had only to turn his own thoughts elsewhere. But also he discovered that over the thoughts of those outside the range of his physical sight he had no control. When he asked of what Helen Carey was at that moment thinking, there was no result. But when he asked, “Of what is that policeman on the corner thinking?” he was surprised to find that that officer of the law was formulating regulations to abolish the hobble skirt as an impediment to traffic.
As Philip turned into Berkeley Square, the accents of a mind in great distress smote upon his new and sixth sense. And, in the person of a young gentleman leaning against the park railing, he discovered the source from which the mental sufferings emanated. The young man was a pink-cheeked, yellow-haired youth of extremely boyish appearance, and dressed as if for the race-track. But at the moment his pink and babyish face wore an expression of complete misery. With tear-filled eyes he was gazing at a house of yellow stucco on the opposite side of the street. And his thoughts were these: “She is the best that ever lived, and I am the most ungrateful of fools. How happy were we in the house of yellow stucco! Only now, when she has closed its doors to me, do I know how happy! If she would give me another chance, never again would I distress or deceive her.”
So far had the young man progressed in his thoughts when an automobile of surprising smartness swept around the corner and drew up in front of the house of yellow stucco, and from it descended a charming young person. She was of the Dresden-shepherdess type, with large blue eyes of haunting beauty and innocence.
“My wife!” exclaimed the blond youth at the railings. And instantly he dodged behind a horse that, while still attached to a four-wheeler, was contentedly eating from a nose-bag.
With a key the Dresden shepherdess opened the door to the yellow house and disappeared.
The calling of the reporter trains him in audacity, and to act quickly. He shares the troubles of so many people that to the troubles of other people he becomes callous, and often will rush in where friends of the family fear to tread. Although Philip was not now acting as a reporter, he acted quickly. Hardly had the door closed upon the young lady than he had mounted the steps and rung the visitor’s bell. As he did so, he could not resist casting a triumphant glance in the direction of the outlawed husband. And, in turn, what the outcast husband, peering from across the back of the cab horse, thought of Philip, of his clothes, of his general appearance, and of the manner in which he would delight to alter all of them, was quickly communicated to the American. They were thoughts of a nature so violent and uncomplimentary that Philip hastily cut off all connection.
As Philip did not know the name of the Dresden-china doll, it was fortunate that on opening the door, the butler promptly announced:
“Her ladyship is not receiving.”
“Her ladyship will, I think, receive me,” said Philip pleasantly, “when you tell her I come as the special ambassador of his lordship.”
From a tiny reception-room on the right of the entrance-hall there issued a feminine exclamation of surprise, not unmixed with joy; and in the hall the noble lady instantly appeared.
When she saw herself confronted by a stranger, she halted in embarrassment. But as, even while she halted, her only thought had been, “Oh! If he will only ask me to forgive him!” Philip felt no embarrassment whatsoever. Outside, concealed behind a cab horse, was the erring but bitterly repentant husband; inside, her tenderest thoughts racing tumultuously toward him, was an unhappy child-wife begging to be begged to pardon.
For a New York reporter, and a Harvard graduate of charm and good manners, it was too easy.
“I do not know you,” said her ladyship. But even as she spoke she motioned to the butler to go away. “You must be one of his new friends.” Her tone was one of envy.
“Indeed, I am his newest friend,” Philip assured her; “but I can safely say no one knows his thoughts as well as I. And they are all of you!”
The china shepherdess blushed with happiness, but instantly she shook her head.
“They tell me I must not believe him,” she announced. “They tell me—”
“Never mind what they tell you,” commanded Philip. “Listen to me. He loves you. Better than ever before, he loves you. All he asks is the chance to tell you so. You cannot help but believe him. Who can look at you, and not believe that he loves you! Let me,” he begged, “bring him to you.” He started from her when, remembering the somewhat violent thoughts of the youthful husband, he added hastily: “Or perhaps it would be better if you called him yourself.”
“Called him!” exclaimed the lady. “He is in Paris-at the races—with her!”
“If they tell you that sort of thing,” protested Philip indignantly, “you must listen to me. He is not in Paris. He is not with her. There never was a her!”
He drew aside the lace curtains and pointed. “He is there—behind that ancient cab horse, praying that you will let him tell you that not only did he never do it; but, what is much more important, he will never do it again.”
The lady herself now timidly drew the curtains apart, and then more boldly showed herself upon the iron balcony. Leaning over the scarlet geraniums, she beckoned with both hands. The result was instantaneous. Philip bolted for the front door, leaving it open; and, as he darted down the steps, the youthful husband, in strides resembling those of an ostrich, shot past him. Philip did not cease running until he was well out of Berkeley Square. Then, not ill-pleased with the adventure, he turned and smiled back at the house of yellow stucco.
“Bless you, my children,” he murmured; “bless you!”
He continued to the Ritz; and, on crossing Piccadilly to the quieter entrance to the hotel in Arlington Street, found gathered around it a considerable crowd drawn up on either side of a red carpet that stretched down the steps of the hotel to a court carriage. A red carpet in June, when all is dry under foot and the sun is shining gently, can mean only royalty; and in the rear of the men in the street Philip halted. He remembered that for a few days the young King of Asturia and the Queen Mother were at the Ritz incognito; and, as he never had seen the young man who so recently and so tragically had been exiled from his own kingdom, Philip raised himself on tiptoe and stared expectantly.
As easily as he could read their faces could he read the thoughts of those about him. They were thoughts of friendly curiosity, of pity for the exiles; on the part of the policemen who had hastened from a cross street, of pride at their temporary responsibility; on the part of the coachman of the court carriage, of speculation as to the possible amount of his Majesty’s tip. The thoughts were as harmless and protecting as the warm sunshine.
And then, suddenly and harshly, like the stroke of a fire bell at midnight, the harmonious chorus of gentle, hospitable thoughts was shattered by one that was discordant, evil, menacing. It was the thought of a man with a brain diseased; and its purpose was murder.
“When they appear at the doorway,” spoke the brain of the maniac, “I shall lift the bomb from my pocket. I shall raise it above my head. I shall crash it against the stone steps. It will hurl them and all of these people into eternity and me with them. But I shall live—a martyr to the Cause. And the Cause will flourish!”
Through the unsuspecting crowd, like a football player diving for a tackle, Philip hurled himself upon a little dark man standing close to the open door of the court carriage. From the rear Philip seized him around the waist and locked his arms behind him, elbow to elbow. Philip’s face, appearing over the man’s shoulder, stared straight into that of the policeman.
“He has a bomb in his right-hand pocket!” yelled Philip. “I can hold him while you take it! But, for Heaven’s sake, don’t drop it!” Philip turned upon the crowd. “Run! All of you!” he shouted. “Run like the devil!”
At that instant the boy King and his Queen Mother, herself still young and beautiful, and cloaked with a dignity and sorrow that her robes of mourning could not intensify, appeared in the doorway.
“Go back, sir!” warned Philip. “He means to kill you!”
At the words and at sight of the struggling men, the great lady swayed helplessly, her eyes filled with terror. Her son sprang protectingly in front of her. But the danger was past. A second policeman was now holding the maniac by the wrists, forcing his arms above his head; Philip’s arms, like a lariat, were wound around his chest; and from his pocket the first policeman gingerly drew forth a round, black object of the size of a glass fire-grenade. He held it high in the air, and waved his free hand warningly. But the warning was unobserved. There was no one remaining to observe it. Leaving the would-be assassin struggling and biting in the grasp of the stalwart policeman, and the other policeman unhappily holding the bomb at arm’s length, Philip sought to escape into the Ritz. But the young King broke through the circle of attendants and stopped him.
“I must thank you,” said the boy eagerly; “and I wish you to tell me how you came to suspect the man’s purpose.”
Unable to speak the truth, Philip, the would-be writer of fiction, began to improvise fluently.
“To learn their purpose, sir,” he said, “is my business. I am of the International Police, and in the secret service of your Majesty.”
“Then I must know your name,” said the King, and added with a dignity that was most becoming, “You will find we are not ungrateful.”
Philip smiled mysteriously and shook his head.
“I said in your secret service,” he repeated. “Did even your Majesty know me, my usefulness would be at an end.” He pointed toward the two policemen. “If you desire to be just, as well as gracious, those are the men to reward.”
He slipped past the King and through the crowd of hotel officials into the hall and on into the corridor.
The arrest had taken place so quietly and so quickly that through the heavy glass doors no sound had penetrated, and of the fact that they had been so close to a possible tragedy those in the corridor were still ignorant. The members of the Hungarian orchestra were arranging their music; a waiter was serving two men of middle age with sherry; and two distinguished-looking elderly gentlemen seated together on a sofa were talking in leisurely whispers.
One of the two middle-aged men was well known to Philip, who as a reporter had often, in New York, endeavored to interview him on matters concerning the steel trust. His name was Faust. He was a Pennsylvania Dutchman from Pittsburgh, and at one time had been a foreman of the night shift in the same mills he now controlled. But with a roar and a spectacular flash, not unlike one of his own blast furnaces, he had soared to fame and fortune. He recognized Philip as one of the bright young men of the Republic; but in his own opinion he was far too self-important to betray that fact.
Philip sank into an imitation Louis Quatorze chair beside a fountain in imitation of one in the apartment of the Pompadour, and ordered what he knew would be an execrable imitation of an American cocktail. While waiting for the cocktail and Lady Woodcote’s luncheon party, Philip, from where he sat, could not help but overhear the conversation of Faust and of the man with him. The latter was a German with Hebraic features and a pointed beard. In loud tones he was congratulating the American many-time millionaire on having that morning come into possession of a rare and valuable masterpiece, a hitherto unknown and but recently discovered portrait of Philip IV by Velasquez.
Philip sighed enviously.
“Fancy,” he thought, “owning a Velasquez! Fancy having it all to yourself! It must be fun to be rich. It certainly is hell to be poor!”
The German, who was evidently a picture-dealer, was exclaiming in tones of rapture, and nodding his head with an air of awe and solemnity.
