Complete Story. The Gragedy of the Calthorpe Club.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIX, Issue VIII, 23 August 1902, Page 458

Complete Story. The Gragedy of the Calthorpe Club.

The smoking-room of the Calthorpe Club, though small, was constructed to meet all the requirements of a man fond of his comforts. It had two big recessed fire places, never a draught, convenient tables, chairs conducive to laziness. In short, it was altogether a desirable haven of refuge. And in the midst of all this comfort the solitary occupant was a dead man. He lay almost naturally in the depths of one of the most comfortable chairs in front of the fire, his left hand still in his trousers pocket. His right, slightly constricted, hung ovcthe arm of the chair; while his hea 1 was bent forward over his chest like that of a man asleep, throwing his face into deep shadow.

Indeed, so natural was the attitude, that twice a servant had come into the room and arranged papers and replenished match-boxes without noticing anything wrong. The clock on the mantel-piece ticked drowsily on, and still the dead man continued to sit undisturbed in front of the fire, the lights shining down on him, the evening paper by his side, and a half-smoked cigarette lying in the ash-tray on the table. But w’hat had originally looked merely like a splash of mud on his shirt-front was growing gradually larger and spreading into a dark, ominous patch. The clock was just on the point of striking- eight when a chattering' group of five or six men came noisily in for a customary sherry hnd bitters before dinner.

“Hullo!” said one, catching- sight of the recumbent figure; “bet you that’s young Molly asleep again, lazy dog!” and he strolled across the room and stirred him with his foot. “Here, wake up, old chap; come and have an appetiser.” One of the others laughed.

“Don’t disturb him. Dillon. He’s dreaming of his best young woman. He’s been chock full of sentiment the last ”

“My heaven, he’s dead,” interrupted the first man, in a horrified whisper. “Here, 1 say, you chaps, come here; he’s been killed or ” (and a significant gesture supplied the blank) — “just look—look—at this,” pointing to the stained shirt front.

Dillon bent over him and placed his hand on the dead man’s heart, and shook his head.

One of the younger members sat down hurriedly in an armchair looking very white, while one or two of his elders cursed softly under their breaths. The door at the far end of the room swung open, and a small, alert, cleanshaven little man poked in his head. “What the deuce ” he began, when the man who had first discovered the body, Alton by name, caught sight of him. “Here, Braithwaite— Doctor,’’ he called, beckoning, “come here, for heaven's sake! Poor youngs Mollisthorpe is dead, or so we think, and we don’t know what—well, look for yourself.” The little doctor hurried through the small knot of men, who gave way for him, and made a quick cursory examination. “H’m, yes, he’s dead, sure enough,” he said at*last. “Poor chap—poor young Molly. Here, get some candles some of you, and let’s put him on this sofa.” With practised lithe fingers he soon ripped open the shirt and vest bearing the telltale stains, and with a handkerchief and a little water out of a glass wiped away the blood from the wound, which he examined intently. “Extraordinary, most extraordinary! ” he muttered, with a startled look. "This has been done with some long, sharp-pointed, round instrument. Something like a woman’s bonnet pin, only thicker. It has got an upward slant, as far as I can judge, and must

have gone straight into the heart. There must have been a lot of power in the blow, too; look! the flesh all round is bruised. This isn’t suicide, but murder. That’s about the size of it—we’d better send for the police at once. Here, you fellows, look about and see if you can find any likely sort of weapon hidden in a corner or thrown aside anywhere.” Just at this juncture a tall, good looking man of about thirty-five came lounging into the room. He did not at first seem to notice anything amiss, but happening to turn quickly he saw Dillon on his knees peering under a sofa. “A new Sandow exercise or hide-and-seek?” he queried, and then suddenly coming into view of the fignire on the couch with the torn shirt he took a quick step forward.

“Murdered!” said someone in a hushed voice. The newcomer bent over and looked at the face. “Good Heavens!” he said, huskily, “and I was to have dined with him to-night. Tell me—what has happened?” Then there arose a subdued babel of voices, as everyone tried to explain, theorise, and argue all at once, till an exclamation from ths little doctor eut it short.

“I have it,” he said, triumphantly; and he held up one of the club cigar, cutters. It was of a common .enough pattern—a short Ivory handle, containing the blade, with a hole through it for the cigar tip, and at the. other end a long, thin, pointed bit of steel, about four and a half inches in length and very sharp. “It is with one of these that Mollisthorpe has been killed. This pipe cleaner thing, or whatever it is, judiciously used, is long enough and strong enough to make about as useful a murderous implement as you’d find in a day’s walk.” “Let’s see if there’s one missing,” suggested a man in the group. The smoking-room waiter was called in and asked how many cigar cutters he was in the habit of putting in the room.

“Ten, sir,” was the scared reply, “and five in each of the sitting-rooms hupetairs.”

A careful scrutiny revealed the faet that there were only nine. “Humph!” ejaculated the doctor. “It probably bent a little —I think the rib bone is grazed, and the beast who used it has taken it away with him.” The police had now arrived and a careful examination of the entrance book in the hall revealed the fact that no visitors had entered or left the club since 5.30. Mollisthorpe’! name was down as having come in at about 5.15. Obviously the murder must hive been committed within a quarter of an hour or so of that time, and by either a member or a dub servant.

It was a little more than a' fortnight after the date in question, and Horace Ambling, the man was to have dined with Mollisthorpe ou the night of his death, was lounging comfortably about in his rooms after a late breakfast, when his man came in and said that a waiter from the club had brought a message for him, and wished to see him. Ambling was absorbed in the daily paper and ordered the waiter to be shown in without looking up. “Oh! and Davis,” he called after the man, “just take that note on the writing table round to Mountstreet at once, will you? I shan’t be dressing just yet.” The waiter came in and closed the door carefully behind him. Ambling glanced up with a faint look of surprise. It was the club smoking-room waiter. “What, Lawson! Have they made yon commissionaire that yon carry messages now?”

“No, sir,” said the man, nervously; “that is to say, sir, this is a private message, and I should like to ’ave a few minutes’ conversation with you confidential like 2 sir.” “Oh!” said Ambling-, coldly. “Well, fire ahead. I’ve just sent my man out.”

“About Mr Mollisthorpe now, sir. I know how he came by his death, sir.”

Ambling threw down his paper. “You ought to be careful, you know, Lawson; you may get yourself into a mess over a thing- like this. Who was it?” The man looked at him furtively, and his face became sullen.

“You, sir, and you know it.” “Then why come and tell me?” said Ambling, quietly. . “Well, sir, seeing as ’ow you’ve always treated me well, and seeing as you is a rich man I thought—” “Just so. Just so. You thought the opportunity too good to be missed, eh? Now, tell me this precious story of yours.” “On the night of the m haccident,” said Lawson, “there was just a minute or two when there was no one looking after the entrance book, the day porter ’ad just gone off duty, and Wade, the night porter, sir, ’adn’t yet come on. 1 was passing through the hall at the far end, and I saw you, sir, come in, and go straight into the smoking room. I didn’t think nothing of it, but happening to pass the swing door, I heard you and Mr Mollisthorpe quarrelling in loud tones about Miss—— “That will do, Lawson; no names please.” “Well, sir, I knows her maid, sir, and so I was well up in all that was passing between you three.” “Go on.”

“I bver’eard you two gentlemen quarrelling Hire mad, and then a minute or so afterwards I see you come out and leave the club, and then 1 see Wade acoming upstairs to the porter’s desk.” Ambling rose slowly, and strolled towards the speaking tu|>e in the hall, which led below- to the man who worked the lift.

“What are you going to do, sir?” said the man in some alarm.

“I’m going,” said Ambling, “ to send for a policeman, and give you in charge for a clumsy attempt at Mackmail.”

“’Old ’ard, sir, ’old ’ard—not quite so fast. You ’ad an oldislj, dress suit on that night, sir, which you gave to your man the other day as worn out. 'lm and me’s been great pals of late—not that he knows anythin’ of this job. I bought that suit off of him, sir, for ten bob, and a friend of mine wot's a chemist, he says ”

"Ah!” said Ambling, “that was sharp of you, wasn’t it, Lawson? — and now you want to sell me that suit, eh?” “Yes, sir.” “What’s your price?” “Five ’undred, spot cash, sir.” “And you’ll swear to keep your mouth shut afterwards?”

“I’ll swear anythink, sir.” Ambling appeared to be turning the matteivjover in his mind. At last he said -sharply: “Come here at 1.30 to-night, when you leave the club, and I’ll have the notes for you. I’m not going to be such a fool as to give you a cheque; 1.30 sharp, mind, and don’t forget the suit.”

Ambling’s own manservant did not sleep on the premises, as the flat was rather a small one, so, when punctually at 1.30 there came a faint ring at the bell, Ambling tossed aside his cigarette, and himself opened the door.

Outside in the dark passage stood Lawson, hat in hand, and with a neat brown paper parcel under his arm. “Come in,” said Ambling. “Now then, let’s see if the suit’s all right. Here are the notes; count them for yourself.” Lawson, with much licking of thumbs, counted them through, and expressed his satisfaction. “Have a drink,” said Ambling, pouring out a stiff whisky and soda. “Nonsense, man; I’m not going to poison you. See here,” and he drained the glass. "Thank you, sir,” said Lawson, and helped himself liberally. He stood in need of it. “Now swear solemnly that you’ll

keep your mouth shut, and won’t come bothering me again.”

Lawson swore —with mental reservations, Ambling surveyed him critically. “I think I shall be able to trust you,” he said, with a smile. “Come along, it’s gutting late. I’ll bring a candle and let you down by the lift; all the lights are out.”

The lift was at the bottom of the house; but a pull on the rope set it in motion, and Ambling stood peering over the well watching its ascent. The draught or a careless movement blew the candle, and it fell from the candlestick, leaving them in darkness.

The lift creaked and grumbled slowly upwards, till at last Ambling stopped its motion by a jerk. “Here you are,” he said, moving aside. The unsuspicious lawson stepped forward, a cold uprush of air struck his face, and with a cry he turned and clutched at Ambling, his feet slipping over the well edge as he did so. “Leave go,” curse you! ” shouted the latter, striking out wildly; but Lawson hung on with the tenacity of

despair. The lift was on a level with the floor above, and below him was a sixty-foot drop on to hard flagstones. There was an instant’s short, sharp struggle- Then Ambling’s foot slipped on the tesselated corridor pavement, and with a shriek they both went down into space—there was an instant’s silence, and then a dull, sickening crash and a few whimpering moans. When the caretaker found them in the morning Ambling was stone dead: but Lawson lived long enough to be carried to the hospital and to tell his story in a few broken sentences, and so the truth concerning Mollisthorpe’s death came to light at last.