The Stranger of the Night

By Edgar Wallace

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Etext from horrormasters.com

The little instrument on the table by the inspector's desk went “tick-tock.” Then it stopped, as though considering how it should word the message it had to give.

It was very still in the charge-room, so still that the big clock above the fireplace was audible. That, and the squeaky scratching of the inspector's quill pen as it moved slowly over the yellow paper on the desk before him, were the only sounds in the room.

Outside it was raining softly, the streets were deserted, and the lines of lamps stretching east and west emphasized the loneliness.

“Tick-tock,” said the instrument on the table excitedly, “tick-tock, tick-tock!” The inspector's high stool creaked as he sat up, listening.

There was a constable at the door, and he, too, heard the frantic call.

“What's that, Gill?” demanded the inspector testily.

The constable came into the charge-room with heavy footsteps.

“Ticketty-ticketty-tick-tock,” babbled the instrument, and the constable wrote the message.

'All stations arrest and detain George Thomas, on ticket-of-leave, aged 35, height 5 ft. 8 in., complexion and hair dark, eyes brown, of gentlemanly appearance. Suspected of being concerned in warehouse robbery. Walthamstow and Canning Town especially note this and acknowledge.

“In the middle of the night!” exclaimed the inspector despairingly. “They call me up to tell me what I've told them hours and hours ago! What a system!”

He nodded his head hopelessly.

Outside, in the thin rain a man was coming along the street, his hands deep in his pockets, his coat collar turned up, his head on his breast. He shuffled along, his boots squelching in the rain, and slackened his pace as he came up to the station. The policeman he expected to find at the door was absent.

The man stood uneasily at the foot of the steps, set his teeth, and mounted slowly. He halted again in the passage out of which the charge-room opened. . . .

“It's a rum thing about Thomas,” said the inspector's voice. “I thought he was trying to go straight.”

“It's his wife, sir,” said the constable, and there was a long silence, broken by the loud ticking of the clock.

“Then why did his wife give him away?” asked the inspector. “Did she, sir?”

There was surprise in the constable's voice, but the man in the passage did not hear that. He was leaning against the painted wall, his hand at his throat, his thin, unshaven face a dirty white, his lips trembling.

“She gave him away,” said the inspector. He spoke with the deliberation of a man enjoying the sensation of dispensing exclusive news. “Know her?”

“Slightly, sir,” said the policeman's voice.

“Handsome woman—she might have done better than Thomas.”

“I think she has,” said the constable dryly, and they both laughed.

“That's the reason, is it? Wants to put him under screw—well, I've heard of such cases.” The man in the passage crept quietly out. He was shaking in every limb; he almost fell at the last step, and clutched the railings that bordered the station house to keep himself erect.

The rain was pouring down but he did not notice it; he was hocked, paralysed by his knowledge. He had broken into a warehouse because she had laughed to scorn his attempt at reformation. He had tried to go straight and she had made him go crooked. . . and then, when the job was done, with all the old cleverness so that he left no trace of his identity, she had gone straight away to the police and put him away. But that was nothing. Women had done such things before; out of jealousy, in a fit of insane anger at some slight, real or fancied, but she had done it deliberately, wickedly, because she loved some man better than she loved him.

He was cool now, seeing things very clearly, and quickened his walk until he was stepping out briskly and lightly, holding his head erect as he had in the days when he was a junior in a broker's office, and she had been a novel-reading miss of Balham.

The rain streamed down his face, the cuffs of his thin jacket clung to his wrists, his trousers were soaked from thigh to ankle. He knew a little shop off the Commercial Road where they sold cheese and butter and wood. He had purchased for a penny a morsel of bread and cheese; he remembered that the woman behind the counter had cut the cheese with a heavy knife, newly whetted and pointed. . . he thought the matter out as he turned in the direction of the shop. Such knives are usually kept in a drawer, next to the till, with the bacon saw and the milk tester, and the little rubber stamp which is used for branding margarine in accordance with the law.

He knew the shop would be shuttered, the door locked, and he had no instrument to force an entrance. The “kit” was in the hands of the police—he had wondered how the splits1 had found them—now he knew.

He gulped down a sob.

Still, there must be a way. The knife was necessary. He was still weak from his last term of penal servitude; he could not kill her with his hands, she was so strong and beautiful—oh, so beautiful!

Thinking disconnectedly, he came to the shop.

It stood in a little side street. There was one street lamp giving light to the thoroughfare. There was no sound but the dismal drip of rain, nobody in sight. . . . There was a skylight above the shuttered door, it was the only way, he saw that at once. Sometimes these are left unfastened. He stood on tiptoe and felt gingerly along the lower part of the sash. His fingers encountered something that lay on the ledge, and his heart leapt. It was a key. . . . He had guessed this to be a “lock-up” shop; he knew enough of the casual character of these little shopkeepers not to be surprised at the ease with which an entry might be effected. He slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and stepped in, closing the door behind him softly.

The air of the shop was hot and stuffy, full of the pungent scent of food-stuffs . . . cheese and ham, and the resinous odour of firewood. He had matches in his pocket, but they were sodden and would not strike. He fumbled round the shelves and came upon a packet. He struck a light, guarding the flame with his hand. The shop had been swept and made tidy for the night. The weights were neatly arranged on either side of the scales, there was a piece of muslin laid over the butter on the slat slab. On the counter, conspicuously displayed, was a note. It contained instructions, written in pencil in a large, uneducated hand, to “Fred.” He was to light the fire, put the kettle on, take in the milk, and serve “Mrs. Smith.”

1

Detectives.

Fred was the boy, the early comer in the morning, for whom the key had been placed. It was remarkable that he settled all these particulars to his own satisfaction, as, lighting match after match, he sought the heavy knife with the sharp point and the newly whetted edge. He even felt a certain exultation in the ease with which he had gained admission to the shop, and had an insane desire to whistle and talk.

He found the knife. It was under the counter, with a greatly scarred cutting-board and a steel. He wrapped it up carefully in a sheet of newspaper, then remembered he was hungry. He broke off a wedge of cheese. There was no bread, but an open tin of children's biscuits was handy.

With the food in his hand, with the knife in his pocket, he continued his exploration. Behind the shop was a little parlour. The door was unlocked, and he entered.

He struck match after match, hesitated a moment, then lit the gas. It was a tiny room, cheaply but neatly furnished. There were china ornaments on the mantel-shelf, a few cheap lithographs on the wall, and a loudly ticking clock. There was a clock at the police-station. . . he made a grimace as though he were in pain, felt with his hand for the knife and smiled.

He sat at a little table in the middle of the room and ate the food mechanically, staring hard at the wall ahead of him.

He had done everything for her; his first crime . . . the few sovereigns extracted from the cash- box. . . . She had inspired that. Her little follies, her little extravagances, her vanities, these had been at the bottom of every step he had taken . . . staring blankly at the wall with wide-opened eyes, he traced his descent.

There was a text on the wall; he had been staring at it all this time, an ill-printed text, black- and-gold, green and vivid crimson, sadly out of register, and bearing in the bottom left-hand corner the conspicuous confession that it was “Printed in Saxony.”

His thoughts were elaborate thoughts, but inclined to dive sideways into inconsequent bypaths; insensibly he had fixed his eyes on the text, in a subconscious attempt to concentrate his thoughts. One half of his brain pursued the deadly course of retrospection, the other half grappled half-heartedly with the words on the wall. He read only those that were in capital letters.

Behold. . . Lamb. . . God. . . taketh Away. . . Sins. . . World.

Three years' penal servitude for burglary, two terms of six months for breaking and entering. . . . She had been at his elbow . . . years ago he was a member of a church, sang in the choir, and religious matters had some significance to him. It is strange how such things drop away from a grown man, how the sweet bloom of faith is rubbed off. . . . He married her at a registry office in Marylebone, and they went to Brighton for their honeymoon. She knew well enough that he could not afford to live as they were living; he had never dreamt that she guessed that he was robbing his employer; and when coolly, and with some amusement, she revealed her knowledge, he was shocked, stunned.

“Behold . . . Lamb . . .”

Might religion have helped him had he kept closer to its teachings? He wondered, slowly munching his biscuit and cheese, with his eyes on the garish text.

He found some milk and drank it, then he rose. Where he had sat were two little pools of water, one on the floor, the other on the table where his arm had rested. He turned out the light, walked softly through the shop, listened, and opened the door gently. There was nobody in sight, and he stepped out, closing and locking the door behind him. He put the key on the ledge where he had

found it, and went quickly to the main road, the heavy knife, newly whetted and with a sharp point, bumping against his thigh with every step he took.

He had an uneasy feeling, and strove to analyse it down to a first cause. He decided it was the text, and smiled; then of a sudden the smile froze on his lips. He was not alone.

A man had come from the night, swiftly, silently, and walked with him, step for step. He stopped dead, his hand wandered down to the pocket where the knife lay.

“What do you want?” he asked harshly.

The other made no reply; his face was in the shadow. What clothes he wore, what manner of man he was, Thomas could not say, only that, standing there, he was tall, gracefully proportioned, easy of movement.

There was a silence, then:

“Come,” said the man from the night, and the burglar accompanied him without question. They walked in silence, and Thomas observed that the stranger moved in the direction he himself would have taken.

“I shall give myself up—afterwards,” he said, speaking feverishly fast. “I will end all this— end it—end it!”

It did not strike him as curious that he should plunge into most secret depths, revealing the innermost thoughts of his heart; he accepted without wonder the conviction that the stranger knew all.

“She led me down from step to step, down, down!” sobbed Thomas, as they walked side by side through the narrow streets that led to the river. “It used to worry me at first, but she strangled my conscience—she laughed at my fears. She is a devil, I tell you.”

“Other men have said, 'The woman tempted me,” ' said the stranger gently. “Yet a man has thought and will of his own.”

Thomas shook his head doggedly.

“I had no will where she was,” he said. “When I have killed her, I shall be a man again.” He tapped his pocket, the knife was still there. “If we had children it might have made a difference, but she hated children.”

“If you were free of her, you might be a man,” said the stranger. His voice was sweet and deep and sad.

“Yes, yes!” The other turned on him eagerly. “That is what I mean; she is in my way. If I kill her, I can start all over again, can't I? I could go back and face the world and say, 'I've killed the bad part of me, give me another chance'—look!” He fumbled in his pocket and brought forth the knife. The rain came pitter-patter on the paper wrapping, and his hand trembled in his excited eagerness to display the strong blade, with the silvery edge and the needle-like point.

“I could not kill her with my hands,” he said, breathing quickly, “so I got this knife. I feel I've got to do it, though I hate killing things. I once killed a rabbit when I was a kiddie, and it haunted me for days.”

“If you were free of her, you might be a man,” said the stranger again.

“Yes, yes,” the thief nodded, “that is what I say—I could go back—back to the old people,” his voice broke. “They don't know how far I've gone under.”

They turned corner after corner, crossing main thoroughfares, diving through alleys where costers' barrows were stacked, chained wheel to wheel, into mean streets, and across patches of waste ground.

Once, through a little passage they came in sight of the river, saw three barges moored side by side, rising and falling slowly with the tide. Out in mid-river a steamer lay, three lights glimmering feebly.

“I shall go into the house from the back,” Thomas said. “There's nobody else in the house but an old woman-or there oughtn't to be. My wife sleeps in the front room.”

“If you were free of her, you might be a man,” said the stranger.

“Yes, yes, yes!” The convict was impatient. “I know that— when I am free. . .” He laughed happily.

“She dragged you down to the deeps,” said the man of the night softly. “Every step you took for good, she clogged and hindered—”

“That's right—that is the truth,” said the other. “Yet you could never escape her; you were loyal and faithful and kind.”

“God knows that is true,” said the man, and wept.

“For better or worse, for richer or poorer,” he said, and it seemed to him that the stranger was saying these words at the same time.

At last they reached a street that was more dark, more wretched than any of its neighbours. The man stopped at a narrow passage which led to the back of the houses.

“I am going in now,” he said simply. “You wait for me here, and when I come back we will start our new life all over again. I shall kill her quickly.”

The man of the night made no reply, and Thomas went through the passage, turned at right angles along a narrower strip of path between wooden fences, and so came to a rickety back gate.

He opened it and went in. He was in a dirty little yard, littered with the jettison of a poor household. There was a tumbledown fowl run, and as he walked stealthily to the house, a cock crew loudly.

The back room was empty, as he knew. He pushed up the window. It squeaked a little. He waited for the cock to crow again and mask the sound. Then he swung himself up to the window- sill and entered the room.

The point of the knife cut through the thin clothing he wore and he felt a sharp pain in his leg. He took the knife from his pocket and felt the edge—then he became conscious of the fact that there was somebody in the room.

He gripped the knife tightly and peered through the darkness. “Who's there?” he whispered.

“It is I,” said a voice he knew, the voice of the man of the night. “How—how did you get in?”

He was amazed and bewildered.

“I came with you,” said the voice. “Let us free ourselves of this woman—she dragged you down, she is the weed that chokes your soul.”

“Yes—yes,” Thomas whispered, and reaching out, found the stranger's hand. Hand in hand they came to the woman's room.

A cheap night-light was burning on the mantel-shelf. She lay with one bare arm thrown out of bed, her breast rose and fell regularly. (He had seen something else that had risen and fallen monotonously; what was it? Yes, barges on the river.)

She was handsome in a coarse way, and as she slept she smiled. Some movement of the man disturbed her, for she stirred and murmured a name—it was not the name of him who stood above her, a knife in his shaking hand.

“Do you love her?”

The stranger' s voice was very soft. The husband shook his head. “Once—I thought so—now. . .” He shook his head again.

“Do you hate her?”

The thief was looking at the sleeping woman earnestly.

“I do not hate her,” he said simply. “I served her because it was my duty. . .”

“Come,” said the stranger, and they left the room together. Thomas unfastened the street door and they passed again into the dreary night.

“I do not love her: I do not hate her,” he said again, half to himself. “I went to her because it was my duty—I worked and stole, and she betrayed me—so I thought I would kill her.”

The knife was still in his hand.

In silence they traversed the way they came, until they reached a little passage that led to the river.

They turned into this.

At the end of the passage was a flight of stone steps, and they heard the “dug-dug” of water as it washed them.

Thomas raised his hand and sent the knife spinning into the river, and a voice hailed him from the foot of the steps.

“That you, Cole?”

His heart almost stopped beating. The voice was hard and metallic. He blinked as though awakened from a sleep.

“Is that you, Cole—who is it?”

Thomas saw a boat at the bottom of the steps. There were four men in it, and one was holding fast with a boat-hook to an iron ring let into the stone.

“Me,” said the thief. “It ain't Cole,” said another voice disgustedly. “Cole won't turn up—he's drunk.” There was a whispering in the boat, then an authoritative voice demanded:

“Want a job, my lad?”

Thomas went down two steps and bent forward. “Yes—I want a job,” he said.

A querulous voice said something about missing the tide.

“Can you cook?”

“Yes—I can cook.”

He had been employed in this capacity in prison. “Jump in—sign you on to-morrow—we are going to Valparaiso—steam—how does that suit you?”

Thomas was silent. “I don't want to come back—here,” he said. “We'll get a better man for the return voyage—jump in.” He got into the boat awkwardly, and the officer at the stern gave an order.

The boat pushed off and then the thief remembered the man of the night. He could see him plainer than ever he had seen him before. He was a radiant figure standing on the dark edge of the water, his hands outstretched in farewell.

Thomas saw the face, beautiful and benevolent: he saw the faint light that seemed to surround him.

“Behold. . .” muttered the man in the boat. “It's strange how that text. . . Good-bye, good-bye sir. . .”

“Who are you talking to, mate?” asked the sailor who was rowing. “The—the man who was with me,” said Thomas. “There was no man with you,” said the sailor scornfully. “You were by yourself.”