: No. 13 Toroni: A Mystery by Regis Julius - Detective and mystery stories; Swedish fiction Translations into English

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THE MYSTERY OF ELAINE ROBERTSON

CHAPTER

THE WOODEN DOLLS

HURRICANE ISLAND

"They are all gone ... all, that crazy Craig Russel, Sanderson, the black Colonel, all gone. All, save William Robertson, myself and you, and the mystery of King Solomon is not solved...."

Victor Dreyel left off writing and looked expectantly towards the door. As he sat there in his well-lighted studio he looked rather like an old bird of prey in a glass cage. All round him reigned unbroken silence, but in his clear, sad eyes there lurked an expression of suspense, and, if any of his fellow-lodgers in No. 30 John Street had seen him at that moment, they would have said he had cause for the strain; he had the look of one suffering from painful memories.

Victor Dreyel, a silent man of about sixty, with wrinkled face and white hair well brushed back from his forehead, his light blue eyes shaded by bushy brows, was spare and thin. Fifteen years ago, when first he had taken up his abode on the fifth floor of No. 30 John Street, in one of the oldest and least frequented quarters of Stockholm, he had been an object of much curiosity among the neighbors; he seemed so lonely, so reticent, yet well able to shift for himself, and as he refused all offers of help with cool but studied politeness, some sort of story regarding his former life had to be invented and set going. One heard that he had been mixed up with Chinese smugglers on the coast of California, another was informed that he had taken part in some Arctic expedition which had ended disastrously; the general opinion, however, was that he had led a life of adventure and had returned to Sweden from North America, where he had been implicated in some mysterious affair which had left an indelible mark upon his character.

His business in No. 30 John Street was a very prosaic one--he set up as a photographer. He was fairly capable though, occasionally, a little behind the times. A showcase outside the front door which bore witness to his skill, might have attracted a goodly number of customers, had not the Gothic brick walls of St. John's Church and a thick clump of trees cut John Street off from all ordinary traffic, so that with the years, Dreyel's studio became more and more desolate and empty. People left off associating the aged photographer, in threadbare but well-brushed garments, with any exciting adventure; and there came a time when his very existence was forgotten. For fifteen years the silent lodger went in and out of the old house like a stranger, people got accustomed to him, though the secret of his life had never been discovered.

It was, however, decreed that the interest of Victor Dreyel's neighbors should be aroused once more, and that in a way no one would have dreamed of, on the evening of the first of August, 1918....

After having again cast wistful glances at the door, Dreyel once more bent over his desk and continued to write: "Fifteen years have I been living in this somber and quiet corner; perhaps it was my time of probation all along. They say likenesses of the dead bring misfortune to the living. After all those years it was a curious gift to you and me; and whatever may happen to-night I shall not give in without a struggle...."

Suddenly he let his pen fall. The church clock struck eight and at the same moment there was a sharp ring at the door. Dreyel's face grew hard and alert; he passed through the studio and waiting-room, and opened the door into the passage; a young man in dripping rain-coat entered precipitately.

"You have been a long time, Murner," said Dreyel. "Have you brought him with you?"

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