The Green Eyes of Bâst | Page 6

my hobbies, and in several instances I had traced cases of alleged
haunting and other supposedly supernatural happenings to a criminal
source; but the ordinary sordid murder did not interest me.
"The body of Sir Marcus Coverly has been found in a crate!" explained
my friend. "The crate was being lowered into the hold of the S.S.
Oritoga at the West India Docks. It had been delivered by a
conveyance specially hired for the purpose apparently, as the Oritoga is
due to sail in an hour. There are all sorts of curious details but these
you can learn for yourself. Don't trouble to call at the office; proceed
straight to the dock."

"Right!" I said shortly. "I'll start immediately."
And this sudden decision had been brought about by the mention of the
victim's name. Indeed, as I replaced the receiver on the hook I observed
that my hand was shaking and I have little doubt that I had grown pale.
In the first place, then, let me confess that my retirement to the odd
little retreat which at this time was my home, and my absorption in the
obscure studies to which I have referred were not so much due to any
natural liking for the life of a recluse as to the shattering of certain
matrimonial designs. I had learned of the wreck of my hopes upon
reading a press paragraph which announced the engagement of Isobel
Merlin to Eric Coverly. And it was as much to conceal my
disappointment from the world as for any better reason that I had slunk
into retirement; for if I am slow to come to a decision in such a matter,
once come to, it is of no light moment.
Yet although I had breathed no word of my lost dreams to Isobel but
had congratulated her with the rest, often and bitterly I had cursed
myself for a sluggard. Too late I had learned that she had but awaited a
word from me; and I had gone off to Mesopotamia, leaving that word
unspoken. During my absence Coverly had won the prize which I had
thrown away. He was heir to the title, for his cousin, Sir Marcus, was
unmarried. Now here, a bolt from the blue, came the news of his
cousin's death!
It can well be imagined with what intense excitement I hurried to the
docks. All other plans abandoned, Coates, arrayed in his neat blue
uniform, ran the Rover round from the garage, and ere long we were
jolting along the hideously uneven Commercial Road, East, dodging
traction-engines drawing strings of lorries, and continually meeting
delay in the form of those breakdowns which are of hourly occurrence
in this congested but rugged highway.
In the West India Dock Road the way became slightly more open, but
when at last I alighted and entered the dock gates I recognized that
every newspaper and news agency in the kingdom was apparently
represented. Jones, of the Gleaner, was coming out as I went in, and:

"Hello, Addison!" he cried, "this is quite in your line! It's as mad as
'Alice in Wonderland.'"
I did not delay, however, but hurried on in the direction of a dock
building, at the door of which was gathered a heterogeneous group
comprising newspaper men, dock officials, police and others who were
unclassifiable. Half a dozen acquaintances greeted me as I came up,
and I saw that the door was closed and that a constable stood on duty
before it.
"I call it damned impudence, Addison!" exclaimed one pressman. "The
dock people are refusing everybody information until Inspector
Somebody-or-Other arrives from New Scotland Yard. I should think he
has stopped on the way to get his lunch."
The speaker glanced impatiently at his watch and I went to speak to the
man on duty.
"You have orders to admit no one, constable?" I asked.
"That's so, sir," he replied. "We're waiting for Detective-Inspector
Gatton, who has been put in charge of the case."
"Ah! Gatton," I muttered, and, stepping aside from the expectant group,
I filled and lighted my pipe, convinced that anything to be learned I
should learn from Inspector Gatton, for he and I were old friends,
having been mutually concerned in several interesting cases.
A few minutes later the Inspector arrived--a thick-set, clean-shaven,
very bronzed man, his dark hair streaked with gray, and with all the
appearance of a retired naval officer, in his well-cut blue serge suit and
soft felt hat; a very reserved man whose innocent-looking blue eyes
gave him that frank and open expression which is more often associated
with a seaman than with a detective. He nodded to several
acquaintances in the group, and then, observing me where I stood,
came over and shook hands.
"Open the door, constable," he ordered