"Was the man drunk last night?" asked Sergeant Cuff.
"Perfectly sober, sir--or I would never have let him sleep in my house."
"Did he pay for his bed beforehand?"
"No."
"Could he leave the room in any way, without going out by the door?"
"The room is a garret," said the landlord. "But there's a trap-door in
the ceiling, leading out on to the roof--and a little lower down the
street, there's an empty house under repair. Do you think, Sergeant, the
blackguard has got off in that way, without paying?"
"A sailor," said Sergeant Cuff, "might have done it--early in the
morning, before the street was astir. He would be used to climbing, and
his head wouldn't fail him on the roofs of the houses."
As he spoke, the arrival of the carpenter was announced. We all went
up-stairs, at once, to the top story. I noticed that the Sergeant was
unusually grave, even for him. It also struck me as odd that he told the
boy (after having previously encouraged him to follow us), to wait in
the room below till we came down again.
The carpenter's hammer and chisel disposed of the resistance of the door
in a few minutes. But some article of furniture had been placed against
it inside, as a barricade. By pushing at the door, we thrust this
obstacle aside, and so got admission to the room. The landlord entered
first; the Sergeant second; and I third. The other persons present
followed us.
We all looked towards the bed, and all started.
The man had not left the room. He lay, dressed, on the bed--with a white
pillow over his face, which completely hid it from view.
"What does that mean?" said the landlord, pointing to the pillow.
Sergeant Cuff led the way to the bed, without answering, and removed the
pillow.
The man's swarthy face was placid and still; his black hair and beard
were slightly, very slightly, discomposed. His eyes stared wide-open,
glassy and vacant, at the ceiling. The filmy look and the fixed
expression of them horrified me. I turned away, and went to the open
window. The rest of them remained, where Sergeant Cuff remained, at the
bed.
"He's in a fit!" I heard the landlord say.
"He's dead," the Sergeant answered. "Send for the nearest doctor, and
send for the police."
The waiter was despatched on both errands. Some strange fascination
seemed to hold Sergeant Cuff to the bed. Some strange curiosity seemed
to keep the rest of them waiting, to see what the Sergeant would do
next.