Tracked to Doom; the story of a mystery and its unravelling ... With six illustrations by Gordon Browne

Front matter

TRACKED TO DOOM, BOOKS BY DICK DONOVAN. The Man-Hunter: Stories from a Detective's Note-Book. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. " For such a book as this popularity is certain. The tales are very cleverly told, the situations are thrilling and exciting, and the ingenuity and patience with which the slender threads of evidence are followed up is remarkable."— Birmingham Daily Post. Caught at Last ! Leaves from the Note-Book of a Detective. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth limp, as. 6d. " The fascination which Prince Bismarck is known to find in tales of this kind is shared by innumerable readers in every part of the world ; nor is there any difficulty in discovering the secret of this attraction." — Manchester Guardian. Tracked and Taken: Detective Sketches. Tost 8\o, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. " Mr. Donovan's superiority to his numerous imitators in this line of writing lies in his wide experience of life, embracing a knowledge of the ways of criminals and of human nature.

It is this experience, combined with an attractive and simple style, that has led to the enormous success of Mr. Donovan's detective stories." — Dundee Courier. Who Poisoned Hetty Duncan ? &c. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, cs. ; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. " Dick Donovan is in the front rank of detective story-tellers. . . . The stories are really clever and interesting, and assuredly they will be read with pleasure by all who care for detective stories. " — Scotsman. The Man from Manchester. With 23 Illustrations by J. H. Russell. Crown Svo, cloth extra, 6s. ; post Svo, illustrated boards, 2s. "The adventures of a successful thief-catcher, well told by himself, have a bizarre fascination of their own, and certainly Dick Donovan's exploits lose none of their glory in his deft handling." — Whitehall Review.

A Detective's Triumphs. Post 8\-o, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. "Within the covers of this book will be found eleven exciting stories by the well-known Dick Donovan. As for the stories, they are unique in their peculiar way. The volume abounds in sensational effects, and is capital reading for idle people at the seaside." — Public Opinion. London : CHATTO & WINDUS, 214 Piccadilly, W. " He seized it eagerly and examined it," Page 222. Tracked to Doom THE STORY Of A MYSTERY AND ITS UNRAVELLING r.Y DICK DONOVAN AUTHOR OF "THE MAN-HUNTER,'' "WHO POISONED HETTY DUNCAN? ' ''THE MAN FROM MANCHESTER," " CAUGHT AT LAST!" "A DETECTIVE'S TRIUMPHS," ETC. WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON BROWNE Honton CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY £>teas BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON CONTENTS.

Chapter I. The Tragedy At St

JOHN'S WOOD. It was a fervid July uiglit. The scene London, and the hour near twelve o'clock. The roar of the vehicular traffic was dying down, for the theatres had emptied some time before, but the restaurants and public-houses were still doing a roaring trade, while the streets were full of bustle and life, for the stagnant and heated atmosphere induced people to linger and chat and smoke in the open air rather than hurry to their homes. In one of the by-streets off the Strand was the stage door of a popular theatre. Up to half-an-hour before this the theatre had been packed from floor to ceiling with an enthusiastic audience, to witness the first pro duction of a new burlesque. A young, good-looking, and popular actress had taken a leading part in it. She had been favourably known to London for about a year.

Up to that time she had been playing in the provinces, and had come to London a stranger and unheralded, but made her mark immediately. Her professional name was Vesta Florence, and from every photographer's shop window portraits of " Miss Vesta Florence, the popular burlesque actress," stared one in the face. She was a blonde, with wavy, golden hair and a remarkably pretty face. Her figure was faultless, and she had a sweet, musical voice. Although about twenty-four, she seemed little more than a girl, for she was petite and child-like in her manner. In the by-street where the stage-door was, a man promenaded up and down with an air of impatience and irritability. He was in evening-dress, and wore a thin Inverness-cape over his frock-coat. He had been in the front of the house, but when the performance ended he went round to the stage-door and inquired of the porter how long Miss Florence would be before she was ready to leave, and was told perhaps half-an-hour or three quarters.

He was a dark man, of about medium height, with a full moustache and no whiskers, while his hair was cropped close. His face was tanned with sun and weather, as if he had travelled abroad a good deal, and his dark, restless eyes seemed to bespeak a passionate, vindictive, and fiery nature. Now and again he glanced nervously at the stage-door, looked at his watch, then resumed his walk, but never going many yards away from the door, and he eagerly scanned the face of every one who came out. Presently the door swung open again ; a gleam of light shot athwart the pavement, and i clear, ringing voice exclaimed to some one inside — "Good-night, dear. Good-night, all." Then there was the rustle of a silk dress, and a young woman came forth. It was Miss Vesta Florence, and she was about to get into a hansom-cab that waited at the edge of the pavement for her, when the man who had been promenading up and down strode up, seized her by the arm, and hissed into her ear — " So, Mary, we meet again.

The mere utterance of the name " Mary " and the sound of the man's voice startled her, and as she turned round and looked at him she exclaimed, in low tones — "My God! you here?" She was very pale, and evidently greatly agitated, "Yes," he answered, with a cynical smile. "You didn't expect to see me ? " " No," she faltered. " But come away from this spot, for goodness' sake." Telling the cabman to wait, she moved down the street, the man in the Inverness-cape by her side. Then she turned to him, and with evident emotion and distress, said — " What has brought you back ? What do you want ?" "To your first question, business has brought me back. To your second, I want you." " No, no ! " she answered in a pleading voice. " You cannot have me ; you must forget me. You must go away." He laughed a cynical laugh again — a laugh that was suggestive of a cold-blooded, sneering disposition, and he said — " I must go away, must I ?

No, my sweet Mary ; not this time." She glanced around her nervously, and said — " Oh ! don't let us loiter about, or we shall attract attention.'' "Very well," he answered. "Not that I care, but I am hungry and want some supper. You will sup with me ? " "Anything," she said; "but let us go from here." He led the way to the cab, handed her in, and tellings the cabman to drive to a well-known hotel in the neighbourhood of .Piccadilly, took his seat beside her. Arrived at the hotel he ordered a costly supper, including white wine, sherry, and champagne. He did full justice to it, though she ate but little. Her pretty face wore a look of woebegoneness, and now and again tears welled to her eyes, as though some great trouble was on her mind. ' Why don't you eat ? " he asked. ' I can't," she answered curtly. 'Why not?"

"Because you are here," she remarked savagely. He laughed again. "You are still the pretty devil of old," he said care lessly. "But perhaps I shall be able to take some of the devil out of you." Then he called for the bill, and when it was brought he said to her — "As I hear you are making a fortune with your acting, you can pay for this. ' Without replying, though her lip curled with scorn, she drew forth a well-filled purse and gave the waiter the money for the bill. " What are you going to do now ? " her companion demanded. " I am going home," she said. " Where is your home ? " " Why do you ask ? What has it got to do with you where I live ? " He shrugged his shoulders and coolly lighted a cigarette. "I should say it has much to do with me," he replied. " Any way, I am going with you." " No ; for Heaven's sake, no !

You cannot ; you must not ! " Then, as she saw that the attention of some other people in the room had been attracted to her, she whispered — '• Don't drive me mad ! Let us leave this place at once. Bemember I am well known." They went into the street, and he hailed a passing cab and helped her in. " Where shall I tell him to drive to ? " After some hesitation she gave an address at St. John's Wood; thither they were driven. And when St. John's Wood was reached she stopped the cab at the corner of a road and alighted, followed by her companion. She paid the cabman and dismissed him, then said peremptorily to her companion — "You must leave me here." " Why ? " he asked, in astonishment. "Because my husband will be at home, and there will be a row." "Your husband ! " he exclaimed as he seized her by the wrist, so roughly and cruelly that she cried out and said — " Leave go.

You hurt me." But he did not leave go ; he was excited and chafing with passion. He put his face close to hers, and be tween his teeth said — " You lie ! I don't believe you. But if you are married, 1 11 make your life a hell ! " "You'vedone that already," she answered bitterly, as she wrenched herself free from his grasp, and show ing spirit and determination. " You may do your worst now, for I will defy you." She sped away from him, and entered the gates of a house some little distance down the road. When he had recovered from his surprise he followed, but by that time she had disappeared. The house was a detached villa, standing in a small garden, and on the gate, painted in black and gold, was the name " Linda Villa." The man noted this, and for some moments stood irresolute, as though he could not make up his mind what to do.

But at last he turned on his heel and walked quickly away. A week later, at about half-past two in the morning, five men alighted at the gate of Linda Villa from two hansoms. They were all smoking— all in evening-dress • while their husky voices and unsteady gait suggested that they had supped not wisely, and had looked on the wine that was red. "Come in, chappies, and have the final," said one of the men, who evidently lived at Linda Villa. He was of medium height, dark-complexioned, with close cropped hair, a full moustache, and dark, restless eyes. "No, no," they all said; "it is too late. It would be a shame to disturb your wife at this time of night." " Oh, nonsense ! Come in," urged the man. " Not to-night, Ricardo," answered one of his com panions, who were also neighbours. "We'll look you up on Sunday evening."

"All right," answered Ricardo. " Don't forget that's an appointment. Well, good-night." The friends shook hands and parted. Ricardo un latched the gate of Linda Villa and staggered to the door, which he managed to open after much fumbling with a latch-key. Then he entered the house and closed the door behind him. About a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes later there was a flashing of lights in the house ; the street door was flung violently open, and Ricardo, in slippered feet and with pallid, scared face, rushed out hatless, tore down the road for about a hundred yards till he reached a house on the door of which was a brass plate bearing the inscription, " Dr. Wilkinson." He rang the night-bell violently, and succeeded in arousing the doctor, who, in response to Ricardo's urgent request, returned with him to Linda Villa, and was taken to the dining-room, and this was what he saw : — On the couch lay a woman.

Her left arm was bent, and the hand, tightly clenched, rested on her bosom. Her right arm was stretched at full length ; the hand, also tightly clenched, was resting on the floor. The right foot was also on the floor, but the left knee was drawn up. The face was distorted, the eyes bulging out, the tip of the tongue protruding from between the blackened lips, the nostrils dilated. The whole attitude and the distorted features told of agonising suffering. The woman was Vesta Florence, the burlesque actress and the wife of Eugene Ricardo. She was quite dead. Her beautiful fair hair was disarranged, part of it hanging over the pillow of the couch. The front of her dress was open at the top, and round her white throat was a silk handkerchief, folded into a narrow band, but quite loose. With that handkerchief, how ever, Vesta Florence had been strangled ; for there was a livid mark, corresponding with the handkerchief, all round the throat.

" She is dead," said Dr. Wilkinson, after a very brief examination. " She has been strangled." " Yes," answered Ricardo, seeming very confused and bewildered. " I found her so." The doctor looked at him with an incredulous ex pression. Three or four scared servants in dishabille had crowded into the hall, and were peering in at the doorway. He looked from Ricardo to them, as if expecting them to give him some explanation. But they spoke never a word. " Well, I can do nothing," he remarked. " Your wife is quite dead, and has died of strangulation ; and I don't think she can have strangled herself. It seems to me a case of murder, and it is my duty, therefore, to give notice to the police. If you have the key of the room, let me have it, so that I may lock the door, and prevent the body being touched and the things from being disturbed."

He was told that the key was in the door, so he turned it in the lock, took the key with him, and hurried off to the nearest police-station, where he reported that he believed a dreadful murder had been committed at Linda Villa.

Chapter II In Which Calvin Sugg, The Detective, Is Introduced

When the news was spread that Vesta Florence, the public favourite, had been murdered in her house at St. John's Wood, the excitement was intense. No murder of modern time had aroused Londoners as this one did. Apart from the woman being so well known as an actress, the crime was shrouded in mystery. And, by the papers, the public learnt for the first time that Vesta Florence was a married woman, and the wife of Eugene Ricardo. The evening papers also announced that Eugene Ricardo had been placed under arrest on suspicion of having killed his wife. The subject of the murder was the one topic of conversation for hours. Business men on the way to the City discussed it. In trains, in 'buses, and at public-house bars it was talked about. Men on 'Change forgot stocks and shares for the moment to speak feelingly of the strange murder of " poor little Florence."

If the Prime Minister or the Prince of Wales himself had suddenly died, the attention of London could not have been more strongly concentrated on the event than it was on the death of Vesta Florence, the actress. That afternoon a gentleman, whose white hair and whiskers and lined face told that he had long passed the meridian of life, drove in a cab from the City to a house near Clapham Common, where he alighted and rang the door-bell with nervous agitation. In a few minutes the door was opened by a neat maid in white apron and cap. "Is Mr. Sugg in?" asked the visitor, with some manifestations of anxiety, as if he feared that Mr. Sugg might be out. " Y'es, sir," was the answer. Whereupon the gentle man seemed relieved. " Come in, please. Who shall I say wants him ? " as she showed the gentleman into the front parlour.

" Glindon is my name," was the answer. The maid withdrew, and in about five minutes Mr. Sugg entered the room, and Glindon shook his hand cordially. Calvin Sugg was a remarkable man, physically, facially, and mentally. By profession he was a detective, and he had made himself famous almost throughout Europe. It could truly be said of Mr. Sugg that he had been born for his profession; and nature seemed to have embodied in him the ideal detective. Although he might have been considered somewhat short in stature, his wonderfully well-knit frame spoke of great powers of endurance as well as great strength, both of which he possessed in a striking degree. His hands, shapely and flexible, were joined to wrists B that seemed to be all sinews. His general physical appearance was suggestive of the athlete trained to a point of absolute perfection.

His face was a study. The features, though somewhat small, were regular. He had soft, blue eyes that in repose were dull ; but once let the man feel interested in anything, and those eyes blazed out like living coals, and had such a steady, piercing gaze that it was not many men who could look fixedly at him. Deep nerve-lines extended from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, and two thought-furrows between the eyes not only gave one the impression that he was capable of great concentration on any particular subject, but had a will that nothing could break down. He was clean shaved, the better to enable him to adopt various disguises, at which he was known to be an adept. He was slightly bald, and his hair was iron-grey, which made him look older somewhat that his years, which were about forty-four.

He had a soft, clear voice that was very pleasant, but somewhat struck a stranger as being a little incongruous when contrasted with his build — a build that one is apt to associate with a deep, even a raucous voice. His mental gifts were in keeping with his other qualities. There were few things, in a general way, he did not know something about. He spoke at least six languages fluently, and had a good knowledge of several others ; while his memory for detail, dates, and minutiæ was simply astounding. He had been instrumental in tracking down some of the most notorious criminals of the age. So that, if he was the criminal's horror, he was the law's pride ; and hidden away — for a retiring modesty was not the least conspicuous of his many conspicuous qualities — he had innumerable medals and souvenirs of all kinds that had been presented to him by different Governments for service rendered.

Bat Calvin Sugg never boasted, never talked of his own power, and had as sympathetic and as kindly a heart as ever beat in man's breast. He used to say sometimes, when in a jocular mood, that nature had given him a detective's brain but a woman's heart. "Well?" he said, as he shook his visitor's hand. " It must be something urgent and important that has brought you here, Mr. Glindon." "It is, it is," answered Glindon. " Of course you've heard of the murder of Ricardo's wife, Vesta Florence ? " " Oh yes." " Have you received any instructions in the matter ? " "No. I understand that the Scotland Yard people have put Peter Grierson on the case." "Ugh!" exclaimed Mr. Glindon, with an expression of profound disgust; "Grierson is a fool. Now, look here, Sugg : you know that Ricardo has been arrested ?

" "Yes." "According to what the papers say, however, the murder is surrounded with the deepest mystery, and that there is no evidence at present against Ricardo. In my own mind I am sure the wretch is guilty, and I want yon to bring the crime home to him. You must do this, Sugg ; you must. And if he should be con victed, then indeed I shall breathe freely and live again." "Mr. Glindon, what is the strange power that that man exercises over you ? " asked Sugg, with the pointed emphasis that he always gave to any question that interested him in an unusual way. " Do not ask, for I cannot tell you," answered Glindon, with a look of keen distress in his face, which was careworn and anxious. " But if you can bring this crime home to him you will relieve me of an incubus. Take the case up on my behalf, and rest assured that your guerdon will be no mean one."

"Don't mention that," answered Sugg. "When I saw the account of the murder I was, of course, greatly surprised, and intended to call upon you to-morrow." "Well, you see, I could not wait. I was too anxious and too impatient, and I resolved to come out and see you. If Ricardo really murdered his wife, he must not be allowed to escape for the want of evidence, and there is no living man so capable of getting that evi dence, if it is to be got, as you. You will try, won't you?" "Yes," said Sugg, after some reflection. Then he asked, "Did you know Mrs. Ricardo?" "No." "But you knew that Vesta Florence was Ricardo's wife ? " "No, I did not even know that. It is two years, nearly, now since I first commissioned you to watch the man, and for some time you have not reported any thing to me." " True ; because I had nothing to report.

However, I will do what I can in this business, and call upon you in a few days." "Do, do; and leave no stone unturned to convict Ricardo." " But supposing that he did not murder his wife ? " " I cannot suppose any such thing, Sugg. I believe there is no crime under the sun that he would not commit. He is an incarnate devil." " That may be true, and yet he may not be responsible for this crime." "Don't harass me with these doubts, there's a good fellow," said Mr. Glindon irritably. "I know the man and you don't. However, I must go now; but I shall hope to see you in the course of a day or two." Mr. Sugg wished his visitor good-night, and they parted ; and when Sugg was alone he mentally asked himself— "What is the link, I wonder, between Ricardo and Glindon, and why should Glindon wish to see Ricardo hanged ?

Umph ! Perhaps some day it will come out, but at present I don't know that it is my business to discover it. I do not like to interfere in other folks' concerns if I have no interest in them. Every man has his skeleton, and poor Glindon is no exception to the rule." Four days later Calvin Sugg, in fulfilment of his promise, called upon Mr. Glindon at his place of business in the City. Mr. Glindon, still looking very anxious, very troubled, and very careworn, received him in his private room, and betrayed his great anxiety by the way in which he asked the question— " Well, Sugg, what success ? " "In accordance with your request, I have left no stone unturned, and I am bound to confess that the *-_t£"™ murder is one of the most mysterious crimes I have ever been called upon to investigate." " Yes, yes ; but you discovered something ?

" "Yes, I've discovered several things." '■ And you have no doubt that Ricardo is guilty ? " " On the contrary, I haven't the slightest hesitation in expressing my conviction that he did not murder his wife, and that, when he is again brought before the magistrate, he will be discharged." For a moment or two Mr. Glindon presented the appearance of a man who was stunned, and he gazed at the detective with a look that was like a look of reproach. "But, Sugg," he exclaimed at last, "you are surely mistaken." " Oh, dear, no," answered Sugg, with the air of one who knew that his words were absolutely indubitable. " I tell you that Ricardo did not murder his wife, and yet the man who did seems, strangely enough, to have borne a strong resemblance to Ricardo." "What man? What man?" gasped Mr. Glindon hoarsely.

"A week before the murder," continued Sugg, "a man in evening-dress and wearing au Inverness-cape inquired for Miss Florence at the stage-door of the theatre. The stage-door porter knew Ricardo, and thought for a moment that this man was Ricardo, but soon saw that he was mistaken. When Florence left the theatre, and was about to get into a cab that was waiting for her, the man accosted her, and they seemed to have an altercation. They subsequently drove to an hotel in Piccadilly and supped, and after wards were driven in a cab to St. John's Wood. "From that point all is shrouded in mystery. On the night of the murder Vesta Florence drove home from the theatre as usual ; and the cabman says she was alone. She reached her residence between twelve and one, and let herself in with a latch-key.

None of the servants were in the habit of sitting up unless Ricardo was at home. He had gone to a dinner on this particular night, and the servants were in bed. They heard nothing and knew nothing until aroused by Ricardo frantically ringing the bell, and he himself rushed out for Dr. Wilkinson. " It was a quarter to three when Wilkinson arrived, and he says in his evidence that the woman had been dead then from an hour to an hour and a half. Con sequently she must have been murdered soon after she got in. Now, Ricardo did not arrive home until half past two, as proved by friends who were with him and parted from him at his gate. The mysterious murderer has for the time escaped. The coroner's verdict is, 'Wilful murder against some person or persons un known.' Ricardo is to be brought before the magistrate to-morrow, and as there is not a tittle of evidence against him he will be discharged."

" And then — and then ? " muttered Glindon, speaking rather to himself than addressing his visitor. "And then," said Sugg drily, "the murderer must be hunted down. There are two things that, I hope, will ultimately enable me to bring him to justice. The first is this silk handkerchief. It is of the finest Tus sore silk, and though large, as you see, it will pass through a wedding-ring. With that handkerchief Vesta Florence was strangled. The Thugs of India used to strangle their victims with handkerchiefs exactly like this one ; for it is readily twisted, and is as strong as steel wire. The second thing is this ring, a massive gold signet-ring. It slipped from the finger of the murderer, and was found on the couch where the dead woman lay. You will note that on the stone is engraved the unusual device of a skull and cross bones."

Mr. Glindon examined the handkerchief and the ring with some manifestations of curiosity, and yet, so to speak, in a mechanical way. And then he said again — "And you believe Ricardo innocent?" " I am certain he is. But I am going to find the murderer." Mr. Glindon showed that he had lost all interest in the subject now, and Calvin Sugg soon took his leave. And when the merchant was alone he paced up and down, pressing his hands to his head like one who was sorely troubled, and he murmured audibly — " Fate mocks me ; even Heaven turns its face away, and the torture I suffer is the torture of Tantalus."

Chapter III. The Triorv

In one of the most beautiful parts of Richmond, Surrey, and commanding a view of that really wonderful pano rama of the Thames, which even prejudiced foreigners have admitted to be unique of its kind, stood The Priory. It was an old house that had undergone restoration at the hands of a modern architect, who, being less of a vandal than most of his contemporaries, had preserved all the picturesque features of a bygone age. The building itself was spacious and commodious, and its external walls in places were covered with mantling ivy ; while over the main entrance a magnificent specimen of wistaria had been carefully trained, and in the season of its blossoming it was a feast of beauty for the eye capable of appreciating the glory of nature as displayed in flowers. The house stood in about eight acres of ground, where nature, in unkempt wildness, had been allowed to blend so cunningly with the primness of art as to produce an effect that was at once charming and delightful.

In one part was a miniature lake, on which floated a genuine Venetian gondola ; and in another was a sylvan glade, where, beneath the deep uni- THE PRIORY. 21 brageous shadow of the tall trees, one could wander knee-deep in ferns and flowers, and, in the silence and seclusion that reigned, find it difficult to realise that he was within a few miles of the roar and passion of the world's mightiest city. Everything connected with The Priory seemed to have been ordered and arranged with an exquisite taste, in which the keen observer might have detected the feminine mind — the mind of a woman of culture, but with the instinctive eye for beauty. Internally the same influence was made manifest even in a more marked degree : colour and harmony were there blended with faultless taste. Wealth displayed itself with a lavish hand; but it was not with the vulgar obtrusive ness that is often a marked feature in the expenditure of your rich parvenu.