# Grey Face/Chapter 9
### CHAPTER IX
#### QUASIMODO

MAKE yourself comfortable," said Muir Torrington, drawing up, beside the armchair in which he had placed Carey, a little table carrying decanter, siphon, and glasses. "Curtis will have turned in, of course, but I must just go and glance at the book. God knows whom I've missed or what I've missed by being out all night on this strange business. I sha'n't keep you many minutes."
He started with long strides for the door of the study, a gaunt, virile figure, then turned, and:
"Oh, by the way," he added, "these might amuse you until I come back."
He began hurriedly to inspect one of the many shelves. Finally, pulling out a pair of stout volumes and clapping them on the table beside Carey, he laughed, in sudden, boisterous good humour.
"You won't be able to make head or tail of them, my lad!" he declared; "but you remember my mentioning the reputation of Professor Hadrian von Gühl?"
"Yes," Carey replied.
"Well, these are two of his best works. Only three have been published in English. The third, and most celebrated, I lent to someone recently. But you will find two sufficient! I sha'n't be long."
He went out.
Carey, helping himself to whisky and soda, took a cigarette from a box upon the table, lighted it, and opened one of the volumes.
This he discovered to be a treatise upon obscure conditions of the pancreatic gland; and, having scanned half a dozen passages or so, and wondered whether his own duodenum chanced to be above reproach, he abandoned it in despair, turning to the second volume only to find himself lost again in a pathological maze. Here were singular diagrams and, to him, meaningless tables. He closed the book and lay back in his chair, looking around the room.
It was a room very characteristic of Muir Torrington. Some of the works on the shelves Carey remembered as having been in Torrington's possession in Edinburgh. The collection had been added to, how- ever, and now was so extensive as to have outgrown the accommodation of the study. Untidy stacks of books lay upon the floor, and all sorts of odds and ends were spread about in the utmost disorder, suggesting that they had been thrown into the room. There were a few instruments, and ambiguous liquids in bottles, the whole place appearing to be systemless as a Limehouse junk-shop. Then, his approach advertised by a loud banging of doors, Muir Torrington returned, drawing furiously at a briar pipe which palpably had gone out.
"I had two very important engagements to-night," he explained, "but no doubt Curtis put things right for me. Ah!" He picked up the works of Hadrian von Gühl and returned them to their shelf. "How's the pancreas? Fit? Good! To carry on where I left off."
He stopped, helped himself to a drink, and set out upon one of his restless promenades, now opening a book at random, closing it, and tossing the volume on a table or on the floor; now adjusting an ornament on the mantelshelf; and continuously striking matches which burned down to his fingers before being dropped and stamped underfoot.
"I wasn't content to let the thing rest, Carey. Mysteries are my vice. I found myself wondering about Trepniak. The figure of the man haunted me. So to-night, having been called out to a patient in the Marble Arch neighbourhood, I walked back along Park Lane trying to think of any reasonable excuse for calling. I was not 'dressed'—idiotic expression—but you know what I mean; I never dress unless I can't avoid it, and, as it happened, this was all to the good. Just as I passed Trepniak's place, walking very slowly, someone came out from the servants' quarters.
"There was no sign of life about the house, no light; and this individual came up from below, closed the gate, and crept out just ahead of me. When I say 'crept out,' I mean 'crept out,' Carey. No one else was passing at the moment, and although the man did not look at me—could not possibly have identified me again—I sensed the fact in some way that he had hoped to leave unnoticed."
Carey, closely watching the speaker, interrupted:
"Your description suggests a thief."
"No!" Muir Torrington was explosively emphatic. "He was as furtive as a midnight cat, and as anxious to avoid observation. But this was no thief, Carey, my lad. It was something very different. At first sight of him I knew that he was something very different. You remember how that flickering light, up there in the tower, affected you to-night? You felt that it was out of the ordinary—in some way unique? Well, this was the aura of my man who crept out of the basement. He was unique. He conveyed an impression of deformity. He stooped—I could not swear that he was really crook-backed." He paused for a moment, striking yet another match. "No! I doubt if there was any true curvature; but the effect was that of a hunchback. I could not see his face. He wore a soft black hat, brim pulled down, Guy Fawkes fashion, with a dark overcoat—and he carried a hand-bag. But how can I make you realize the man! In some way, Carey——" Here Torrington took his unlighted pipe from between his teeth, and, leaning on the mantel, stared downward reflectively—"In some way he was perfectly abominable. Even when I could only see his stooping shoulders, he was revolting."
"But," Carey broke in, "this is difficult to follow, Torrington. Something about the cast of his features must have sown the germ of this idea."
"Nothing of the kind!" Torrington cried, turning to him excitedly. "I never saw his features! Carey"—he peered down at his friend intently—"it was the inner man, the soul of the man, that revolted me. I wonder if I shall ever know the truth? I hope so; for I should like to be able to recognize something in that creature's life history to account for my impressions."
"This is astounding," said Carey. "I don't understand it at all."
"Neither did I!" Muir Torrington turned to him again, and his curiously wide-open eyes seemed to have become more widely opened than usual. "That was why I acted as I did. Carey—Carey, lad, there is a mystery, a black, sticky mystery, about that house and its owner! And I determined, on sight of this furtive, creepy being, that he was a link not to be lost sight of. Our friend, Trepniak, is not a nice man to know, and it came to me that somewhere, at the other end of the journey upon which Quasimodo was setting out, lay a clue to the real life of this social star whose hobby is the vivisection of reptiles. Then and there I made up my mind to follow."
"Good heavens!" Carey exclaimed. "Time and success have not changed you, Torrington!"
"No!" Torrington smiled slightly. "There is a part of me which is ungovernable, lad. I have imprisoned it for many years; otherwise, I should not have gone as far as I have contrived to go. But to-night it broke the bars. Nothing mattered but the tracking of this hunchbacked horror—this abominable, subterranean bug who came crawling out of the basement of Trepniak's house. I had never seen his face, yet I loathed him. I loathed his shuffling gait; and I made up my mind, Carey——" He began feverishly to pace the floor again. "I made up my mind to track him to his dirty nest, whatever the consequences might be. A mad mood, if you like, but——" He paused, turned. "If ever I saw a poisonous insect in human shape, I saw one to-night. My course was unavoidable."
And, as Torrington spoke, Carey seemed to be carried back, over the intervening years, to a meeting of the wildest set who ever painted Edinburgh red—the set whose president had been Muir Torrington. He laughed, shortly.
"Only marriage will finally dispose of your unruly prisoner, old man," he said. "But go on; this thing may mean a lot to me."
Muir Torrington nodded vigorously.
"I was thinking of you," he continued, "as I watched that stooping horror shuffling along in front of me—of you and of Jasmine Hope; because any man who tolerates such an abomination on his premises cannot possibly be a nice man to know. Well——" he paused in his thirteenth or fourteenth attempt to relight his pipe—"I dropped back a few paces but kept my quarry well in view. Coming to Hyde Park Corner, where there was a considerable knot of people, I drew up closer. I was waiting for an opportunity to get a glimpse of the man's face."
"And did you?"
Torrington shook his head.
"Never so much as a peep," he answered. "The fellow joined the group waiting for motor 'busses, and I debated whether I should engage a taxi to follow, or whether I should get on the same 'bus. Whilst I was debating, a 'bus pulled up. I had no alternative then.
"Many of the people waiting were women, some of them apparently charwomen, who had been engaged in cleaning offices in the neighbourhood, I presume. At any rate, the greater number seemed to want to mount this particular 'bus; but Quasimodo was an easy first. Exhibiting a sudden, surprising agility, he swept everyone out of his path, leapt on the footboard, and, hugging his bag, went scuttling up to the top deck!
"His outburst of energy was wasted. The evening threatened rain, you remember, and the inside was more popular than the roof, to which only two passengers mounted, and I was one of them. But at the moment that I reached the top of the steps I recognized the fact that my man had tricked me again. He had taken a front seat and to have sat beside him, when all the other seats were vacant, would have been childish stalking. I saw that, unless he turned round, it would be quite impossible for me to see his face throughout the journey!
"However, having thrown routine to the winds, I lighted my pipe and settled down to the chase: along Piccadilly, up Bond Street, Oxford Street, then to Holborn, from Holborn to the Bank, and, finally, to Aldgate! There were two rather curious episodes, the first when the conductor came to collect the fares.
"When he got to the atrocity on the front seat, he evidently spoke sharply, although the noise of the vehicle drowned his words. I had taken a place at the rear, on the near side, hoping for a view of my man's face as he descended. Evidently, the conductor was complaining of Quasimodo's rough behaviour when he had mounted the 'bus. The passenger, his black hat sunk between his raised shoulders, so that he resembled a squatting vulture, merely extended his fare, not even deigning to glance aside. This evidently aroused George's Cockney spirit (all 'bus conductors are called George). He bent down, resting one hand on the back of the seat, and said something exclusively poisonous.
"Our stooping friend turned slowly, but the shadow of his damned hat still hid his features—from me, that is, but not from the conductor! George fell back as though he had been struck, turned, and literally ran downstairs!"
"But do you think," Carey interrupted, "that it was the sight of the man's face which produced this result, or something which he said?"
"I don't know," Torrington replied; "the sight of him, I think, for I could never hope to make you understand the uncleanness of the creature. But I waited patiently, and in Holborn an elderly woman mounted to the top deck, carrying a black bundle. At this time all seats were occupied except the one next to my hunchbacked acquaintance. The woman saw this, and made for it just as the 'bus restarted. She had nearly reached it when a lurch threw her violently against Quasimodo. He turned, slowly, as he had turned to the conductor.
"Well—I know it sounds preposterous, Carey!—the woman nearly fell down in her anxiety to get away from him! Nursing her bundle, she staggered back to the steps and somehow managed to descend. I don't know what became of her; I suppose she stood up inside.
"Good heavens!" Carey muttered. "The man's face, as well as his body, must have borne some hideous deformity."
Muir Torrington, restlessly pacing the floor, paused in front of him.
"His soul was deformed," he said in a low voice. "If the mere sight of his crooked back could fill one with such horror, what must the glance of his eye have been like? However, just at this moment, the 'bus came to a stop in Aldgate, and I saw the hunchback rise. At last I could see his face!"
"And did you?" Carey asked, excitedly.
"Damn it, he was too cunning! As he stood up grasping his bag in his left hand, he sneezed, pulled out a huge red handkerchief, and, his face buried in its folds, hurried from the 'bus!"
"He realized that he was followed?"
"I don't know." Here Torrington began to knock out his cold pipe in the hearth. "But he was devilishly cautious."
"And where did he go?"
"He crossed the road and mounted a second 'bus, bound for the Far East. Again he clambered up to the roof, but this time I elected to ride inside. I thought that in this way I might catch him off his guard as he descended. I was wrong. At Limehouse Town Hall he came down, but his head was so bent and twisted aside that I had not even a momentary glimpse of a feature. And now my inexperience as a sleuth betrayed me.
"I am almost certain that from this point onward our deformed contemporary knew that he was followed. The outstanding impression which I derived from that receding hump, that lowered, black-hatted head, was one of intense cunning. There was a powerful, evil intelligence at work in the beetle body. But my blood was up, and not caring whether he knew himself to be followed or otherwise, I pressed on behind him down West India Dock Road, until he suddenly disappeared into a turning on the left. The neighbourhood was utterly unfamiliar to me. There were any number of people about, some of them Asiatics, and I knew that I was in the region of Chinatown.
"However, I was determined not to lose the scent, and, missing my man on the main road in front of me, I broke into a run, turned the corner, and, just in the nick of time, saw him open a door in an otherwise blank brick wall and slip in. As I reached the door, it was shut in my face!"
"But," Carey interjected, now completely held by the narrative, "to what house did this door belong.""
Muir Torrington began to re-load his pipe.
"Wait!" he replied, "I am coming to the crowning mystery of a very abominable business. Having inanely wasted much valuable time exploring what I suddenly realized to be a back entrance, I hurried along to the front of the house. It was a mean, two-storied affair facing an unclean alley. One window, which boasted a dilapidated red blind, was lighted. It belonged to a room on the ground floor left of the door. There was no forecourt; it was flush with the street. Through a hole in the blind I looked in."
"Yes! Go on!"
"Through a hole in the blind," Torrington repeated slowly, "I looked in. I saw a dingy sitting room lighted by a common oil lamp. The one door, facing me, was just closing. I had a glimpse of a hand—the hand of the person who held the door. Then it was withdrawn. On a sofa a woman lay, unconscious—some kind of half-caste woman, swarthy, unprepossessing. Her pose, the lifeless way in which an arm hung down, so that her fingers touched the floor, called to me, Carey. I stepped to the door. Through the hole which served as a letterbox a piece of string was hanging. I pulled it. I found myself inside—right in the room. … Carey—Carey, lad, I was too late."
"What do you mean?" Carey whispered.
"She was past aid. Oh, I don't suggest murder! There were no marks of violence."
"She was dead?"
"No; she died while I knelt beside her."
"Without recovering consciousness?"
"Without properly recovering consciousness, yes. But just before the end she murmured a few words which I shall never forget."
"What were the words?"
Muir Torrington, standing over by the door, fixed his gaze intently upon Carey, and:
"'The grey face!'" he replied. "'The grey face!'"