# The Agony Column/Chapter 6

pp. 114–139.

### CHAPTER VI

THE last peace Sunday London was to know in many weary months went by, a tense and anxious day. Early on Monday the fifth letter from the young man of the Agony Column arrived, and when the girl from Texas read it she knew that under no circumstances could she leave London now.
It ran:
    Dear Lady From Home: I call you that because the word home has for me, this hot afternoon in London, about the sweetest sound word ever had. I can see, when I close my eyes, Broadway at midday; Fifth Avenue, gay and colorful, even with all the best people away; Washington Square, cool under the trees, lovely and desirable despite the presence everywhere of alien neighbors from the district to the South. I long for home with an ardent longing; never was London so cruel, so hopeless, so drab, in my eyes. For, as I write this, a constable sits at my elbow, and he and I are shortly to start for Scotland Yard. I have been arrested as a suspect in the case of Captain Fraser-Freer's murder!
    I predicted last night that this was to be a red-letter day in the history of that case, and I also saw myself an unwilling actor in the drama. But little did I suspect the series of astonishing events that was to come with the morning; little did I dream that the net I have been dreading would to-day engulf me. I can scarcely blame Inspector Bray for holding me; what I can not understand is why Colonel Hughes—
    But you want, of course, the whole story from the beginning; and I shall give it to you. At eleven o'clock this morning a constable called on me at my rooms and informed me that I was wanted at once by the Chief Inspector at the Yard.
    We climbed—the constable and I—a narrow stone stairway somewhere at the back of New Scotland Yard, and so came to the inspector's room. Bray was waiting for us, smiling and confident. I remember—silly as the detail is—that he wore in his buttonhole a white rose. His manner of greeting me was more genial than usual. He began by informing me that the police had apprehended the man who, they believed, was guilty of the captain's murder.
    “There is one detail to be cleared up,” he said. “You told me the other night that it was shortly after seven o'clock when you heard the sounds of struggle in the room above you. You were somewhat excited at the time, and under similar circumstances men have been known to make mistakes. Have you considered the matter since? Is it not possible that you were in error in regard to the hour?”
    I recalled Hughes' advice to humor the inspector; and I said that, having thought it over, I was not quite sure. It might have been earlier than seven—say six-thirty.
    “Exactly,” said Bray. He seemed rather pleased. “The natural stress of the moment—I understand. Wilkinson, bring in your prisoner.
    The constable addressed turned and left the room, coming back a moment later with Lieutenant Norman Fraser-Freer. The boy was pale; I could see at a glance that he had not slept for several nights.
    “Lieutenant,” said Bray very sharply, “will you tell me—is it true that your brother, the late captain, had loaned you a large sum of money a year or so ago?”
    “Quite true,” answered the lieutenant in a low voice.
    “You and he had quarreled about the amount of money you spent?”
    “Yes.”
    “By his death you became the sole heir of your father, the general. Your position with the money-lenders was quite altered. Am I right?”
    “I fancy so.”
    “Last Thursday afternoon you went to the Army and Navy Stores and purchased a revolver. You already had your service weapon, but to shoot a man with a bullet from that would be to make the hunt of the police for the murderer absurdly simple.”
    The boy made no answer.
    “Let us suppose,” Bray went on, “that last Thursday evening at half after six you called on your brother in his rooms at Adelphi Terrace. There was an argument about money. You became enraged. You saw him and him alone between you and the fortune you needed so badly. Then—I am only supposing—you noticed on his table an odd knife he had brought from India—safer—more silent—than a gun. You seized it—”
    “Why suppose?” the boy broke in. “I'm not trying to conceal anything. You're right—I did it! I killed my brother! Now let us get the whole business over as soon as may be.”
    Into the face of Inspector Bray there came at that moment a look that has puzzling me ever since—a look that has recurred to my mind again and again, in the stress and storm of this eventful day. It was only too evident that this confession came to him as a shock. I presume so easy a victory seemed hollow to him; he was wishing the boy had put up a fight. Policemen are probably like that.
    “My boy,” he said, “I am sorry for you. My course is clear. If you will go with one of my men—”
    It was at this point that the door of the inspector's room opened and Colonel Hughes, cool and smiling, walked in. Bray chuckled at sight of the military man.
    “Ah, Colonel,” he cried, “you make a good entrance! This morning, when I discovered that I had the honor of having you associated with me in the search for the captain's murderer, you were foolish enough to make a little wager—”
    “I remember,” Hughes answered. “A scarab pin against—a Homburg hat.”
    “Precisely,” said Bray. “You wagered that you, and not I, would discover the guilty man. Well, Colonel, you owe me a scarab. Lieutenant Norman Fraser-Freer has just told me that he killed his brother, and I was on the point of taking down his full confession.”
    “Indeed!” replied Hughes calmly. “Interesting—most interesting! But before we consider the wager lost—before you force the lieutenant to confess in full—I should like the floor.”
    “Certainly,” smiled Bray.
    “When you were kind enough to let me have two of your men this morning,” said Hughes, “I told you I contemplated the arrest of a lady. I have brought that lady to Scotland Yard with me.” He stepped to the door, opened it and beckoned. A tall, blonde handsome woman of about thirty-five entered; and instantly to my nostrils came the pronounced odor of lilacs. “Allow me, Inspector,” went on the colonel, “to introduce to you the Countess Sophie de Graf, late of Berlin, late of Delhi and Rangoon, now of 17 Leitrim Grove, Battersea Park Road.”
    The woman faced Bray; and there was a terrified, hunted look in her eyes.
    “You are the inspector?” she asked.
    “I am,” said Bray.
    “And a man—I can see that,” she went on, her flashing angrily at Hughes. “I appeal to you to protect me from the brutal questioning of this—this fiend.”
    “You are hardly complimentary, Countess,” Hughes smiled. “But I am willing to forgive you if you will tell the inspector the story that you have recently related to me.”
    The woman shut her lips tightly and for a long moment gazed into the eyes of Inspector Bray.
    “He”—she said at last, nodding in the direction of Colonel Hughes—“he got it out of me—how, I don't know.”
    “Got what out of you?” Bray's little eyes were blinking.
    “At six-thirty o'clock last Thursday evening,” said the woman, “I went to the rooms of Captain Fraser-Freer, in Adelphi Terrace. An argument arose. I seized from his table an Indian dagger that was lying there—I stabbed him just above the heart!”
    In that room in Scotland Yard a tense silence fell. For the first time we were all conscious of a tiny clock on the inspector's desk, for it ticked now with a loudness sudden and startling. I gazed at the faces about me. Bray's showed a momentary surprise—then the mask fell again. Lieutenant Fraser-Freer was plainly amazed. On the face of Colonel Hughes I saw what struck me as an open sneer.
    “Go on, Countess,” he smiled.
    She shrugged her shoulders and turned toward him a disdainful back. Her eyes were all for Bray.
    “It's very brief, the story,” she said hastily—I thought almost apologetically. “I had known the captain in Rangoon. My husband was in business there—an exporter of rice—and Captain Fraser-Freer came often to our house. We—he was a charming man, the captain—”
    “Go on!” ordered Hughes.
    “We fell desperately in love,” said the countess. “When he returned to England, though supposedly on a furlough, he told me he would never return to Rangoon. He expected a transfer to Egypt. So it was arranged that I should desert my husband and follow on the next boat. I did so—believing in the captain—thinking he really cared for me—I gave up everything for him. And then—”
    Her voice broke and she took out a handkerchief. Again that odor of lilacs in the room.
    “For a time I saw the captain often in London; and then I began to notice a change. Back among his own kind, with the lonely days in India a mere memory—he seemed no longer to—to care for me. Then—last Thursday morning—he called on me to tell me that he was through; that he would never see me again—in fact, that he was to marry a girl of his own people who had been waiting—”
    The woman looked piteously about at us.
    “I was desperate,” she pleaded. “I had given up all that life held for me—given it up for a man who now looked at me coldly and spoke of marrying another. Can you wonder that I went in the evening to his rooms—went to plead with him—to beg, almost on my knees? It was no use. He was done with me—he said that over and over. Overwhelmed with blind rage and despair, I snatched up that knife from the table and plunged it into his heart. At once I was filled with remorse. I—”
    “One moment,” broke in Hughes. “You may keep the details of your subsequent actions until later. I should like to compliment you, Countess. You tell it better each time.”
    He came over and faced Bray. I thought there was a distinct note of hostility in his voice.
    “Checkmate, Inspector!” he said. Bray made no reply. He sat there staring up at the colonel, his face turned to stone.
    “The scarab pin,” went on Hughes, “is not yet forthcoming. We are tied for honors, my friend. You have your confession, but I have one to match it.”
    “All this is beyond me,” snapped Bray.
    “A bit beyond me, too,” the colonel answered. “Here are two people who wish us to believe that on the evening of Thursday last, at half after six of the clock, each sought out Captain Fraser-Freer in his rooms and murdered him.”
    He walked to the window and then wheeled dramatically.
    “The strangest part of it all is,” he added, “that at six-thirty o'clock last Thursday evening, at an obscure restaurant in Soho—Frigacci's—these two people were having tea together!”
    I must admit that, as the colonel calmly offered this information, I suddenly went limp all over at a realization of the endless maze of mystery in which we were involved. The woman gave a little cry and Lieutenant Fraser-Freer leaped to his feet.
    “How the devil do you know that?” he cried.
    “I know it,” said Colonel Hughes, “because one of my men happened to be having tea at a table near by. He happened to be having tea there for the reason that ever since the arrival of this lady in London, at the request of—er—friends in India, I have been keeping track of her every move; just as I kept watch over your late brother, the captain.”
    Without a word Lieutenant Fraser-Freer dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
    “I'm sorry, my son,” said Hughes. “Really, I am. You made a heroic effort to keep the facts from coming out—a man's-size effort it was. But the War Office knew long before you did that your brother had succumbed to this woman's lure—that he was serving her and Berlin, and not his own country, England.”
    Fraser-Freer raised his head. When he spoke there was in his voice an emotion vastly more sincere than that which had moved him when he made his absurd confession.
    “The game's up,” he said. “I have done all I could. This will kill my father, I am afraid. Ours has been an honorable name, Colonel; you know that—a long line of military men whose loyalty to their country has never before been in question. I thought my confession would end the whole nasty business, that the investigations would stop, and that I might be able to keep forever unknown this horrible thing about him—about my brother.”
    Colonel Hughes laid his hand on the boy's shoulder, and the latter went on:
    “They reached me—those frightful insinuations about Stephen—in a roundabout way; and when he came home from India I resolved to watch him. I saw him go often to the house of this woman. I satisfied myself that she was the same one involved in the stories coming from Rangoon; then, under another name, I managed to meet her. I hinted to her that I myself was none too loyal; not completely, but to a limited extent, I won her confidence. Gradually I became convinced that my brother was indeed disloyal to his country, to his name, to us all. It was at that tea time you have mentioned when I finally made up my mind. I had already bought a revolver; and, with it in my pocket, I went to the Savoy for dinner.”
    He rose and paced the floor.
    “I left the Savoy early and went to Stephen's rooms. I was resolved to have it out with him, to put the matter to him bluntly; and if he had no explanation to give me I intended to kill him then and there. So, you see, I was guilty in intention if not in reality. I entered his study. It was filled with strangers. On his sofa I saw my brother Stephen lying—stabbed above the heart—dead!” There was a moment's silence. “That is all,” said Lieutenant Fraser-Freer.
    “I take it,” said Hughes kindly, “that we have finished with the lieutenant. Eh, Inspector?”
    “Yes,” said Bray shortly. “You may go.”
    “Thank you,” the boy answered. As he went out he said brokenly to Hughes: “I must find him—my father.”
    Bray sat in his chair, staring hard ahead, his jaw thrust out angrily. Suddenly he turned on Hughes.
    “You don't play fair,” he said. “I wasn't told anything of the status of the captain at the War Office. This is all news to me.”
    “Very well,” smiled Hughes. “The bet is off if you like.”
    “No, by heaven!” Bray cried. “It's still on, and I'll win it yet. A fine morning's work I suppose you think you've done. But are we any nearer to finding the murderer? Tell me that.”
    “Only a bit nearer, at any rate,” replied Hughes suavely. “This lady, of course, remains in custody.”
    “Yes, yes,” answered the inspector. “Take her away!” he ordered.
    A constable came forward for the countess and Colonel Hughes gallantly held open the door.
    “You will have an opportunity, Sophie,” he said, “to think up another story. You are clever—it will not be hard.”
    She gave him a black look and went out. Bray got up from his desk. He and Colonel Hughes stood facing each other across a table, and to me there was something in the manner of each that suggested eternal conflict.
    “Well?” sneered Bray.
    “There is one possibility we have overlooked,” Hughes answered. He turned toward me and I was startled by the coldness in his eyes. “Do you know, Inspector,” he went on, “that this American came to London with a letter of introduction to the captain—a letter from the captain's cousin, one Archibald Enwright? And do you know that Fraser-Freer had no cousin of that name?”
    “No!” said Bray.
    “It happens to be the truth,” said Hughes. “The American has confessed as much to me.”
    “Then,” said Bray to me, and his little blinking eyes were on me with a narrow calculating glance that sent the shivers up and down my spine, “you are under arrest. I have exempted you so far because of your friend at the United States Consulate. That exemption ends now.”
    I was thunderstruck. I turned to the colonel, the man who had suggested that I seek him out if I needed a friend—the man I had looked to to save me from just such a contingency as this. But his eyes were quite fishy and unsympathetic.
    “Quite correct, Inspector,” he said. “Lock him up!” And as I began to protest he passed very close to me and spoke in a low voice: “Say nothing. Wait!”
    I pleaded to be allowed to go back to my rooms, to communicate with my friends, and pay a visit to our consulate and to the Embassy; and at the colonel's suggestion Bray agreed to this somewhat irregular course. So this afternoon I have been abroad with a constable, and while I wrote this long letter to you he has been fidgeting in my easy chair. Now he informs me that his patience is exhausted and that I must go at once.
    So there is no time to wonder; no time to speculate as to the future, as to the colonel's sudden turn against me or the promise of his whisper in my ear. I shall, no doubt, spend the night behind those hideous, forbidding walls that your guide has pointed out to you as New Scotland Yard. And when I shall write again, when I shall end this series of letters so filled with—
    The constable will not wait. He is as impatient as a child. Surely he is lying when he says I have kept him here an hour.
    Wherever I am, dear lady, whatever be the end of this amazing tangle, you may be sure the thought of you—
    Confound the man!
Yours, in Durance Vile.
This fifth letter from the young man of the Agony Column arrived at the Carlton Hotel, as the reader may recall, on Monday morning, August the third. And it represented to the girl from Texas the climax of the excitement she had experienced in the matter of the murder in Adelphi Terrace. The news that her pleasant young friend—whom she did not know—had been arrested as a suspect in the case, inevitable as it had seemed for days, came none the less as an unhappy shock. She wondered whether there was anything she could do to help. She even considered going to Scotland Yard and, on the ground that her father was a Congressman from Texas, demanding the immediate release of her strawberry man. Sensibly, however, she decided that Congressmen from Texas meant little in the life of the London police. Besides, she night have difficulty in explaining to that same Congressman how she happened to know all about a crime that was as yet unmentioned in the newspapers.
So she reread the latter portion of the fifth letter, which pictured her hero marched off ingloriously to Scotland Yard and with a worried little sigh, went below to join her father.