The Yellow Face

by Fred M. White

"Well, rather mixed, I should say," Bates replied. "There was a time, not so many years ago, when Montrose Place was quite fashionable. Mind you, they're exceedingly good houses, quite good enough for any moneyed class; but I understand that the landlord is by no means a liberal man, and, as the houses have fallen out of repair, they have become void."

Any further information on this head was cut short by the sudden calling away of the inspector. It seemed to Masefield that Rigby was by no means disposed to mourn for the official's company. He stood with his brows bent frowning at the sombre row of houses in front of him, but, from the quick working of his hands, Masefield could see that his versatile friend's brain was busy.

"I see you have made a discovery," Masefield said quietly. "Would you mind telling me what it is?"

Rigby pointed to the fourth house from the end of the terrace. Did Masefield notice anything about it peculiar? he asked. But Masefield did not see anything about the house at all ominous or suggestive, except that the windows were grimy and dirty, and that the erstwhile fashionable silk blinds were hanging in tatters like banners behind the murky glass.

"But surely you see something?" asked Rigby impatiently. "For instance, take the third window on the left over the ledge, which probably is that of the bathroom. Don't appear to be looking, and, at the same time, keep your eye casually on the window."

With a quickening of his pulses, Masefield glanced up in a vague kind of way in the direction of the window. He felt instinctively that in some way the deserted house was involved in the disappearance of Nostalgo. There was not much time for speculation on this point. Very slowly and cautiously the blind was raised, and a haggard face peeped out. It was like a picture from some old print, this strange weird yellow face behind the grimy glass. So thick was the murky dust upon the casement that it was impossible at so short a distance to decide whether the features were those of a man or a woman. Anyway, the face, if it were that of a man, was clean-shaven, the pale head half hidden behind a tangle of thick black hair. It was only for a moment that this weird face presented itself to the eager eyes of the spectators below; an instant later and the whole phantom had vanished.

"Now, what do you think of that?" Rigby asked eagerly. "Don't you agree with me that this strange apparition has something to do with the story? Now, supposing you or I had some powerful inducement for getting hold of the missing body, could we find a better place to work from than that deserted house?"

"Provided always that it is deserted," Masefield said guardedly. "Don't let's go quite so fast. Surely your own experience must have taught you what strange creatures one often sees as caretakers in good houses?"

"So much the better for me," Rigby replied. "If you are correct in your suggestion, it will make my task all the more easy; for, come what may, I am going to see the whole inside of that place before I sleep to-night."

Rigby walked back into the police station with the air of a man who has said his last word on the matter. It was no advantage to him, working as he was on behalf of his own newspaper, to mention his discovery to Bates. Possibly Masefield's common-sense view of the problem might have been the correct one, after all, in which case Bates would have had the laugh of his unprofessional ally. But Bates had evidently been called out on other business, so that there was no occasion to say anything to him at all. Declining to return to Masefield's rooms and there discuss the matter further over tea, Rigby went thoughtfully back to the office of the Planet. He dined alone at his club, lingering till about ten o'clock over the evening papers, and then proceeded on his way to Montrose Place by the somewhat circuitous route of Covent Garden.