Job No. 1 completed, he turned to Job No. 2. The cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard door was not locked, and for a moment this worried him, till he recollected that he had forgotten to lock it when he had last used it, although he had not forgotten to replace the boards. That had been some four months ago. An old man, with empty pockets, had been found in the canal shortly afterwards…What a fool he had been not to lock it.
‘Still, who’d know?’ he asked himself, as he knelt down at the entrance and felt the flat boards that formed the cupboard’s flooring. ‘The floor doesn’t give anything away!’
Deftly, he removed the boards immediately in front of him, storing them away against an inner wall. Now he was not kneeling before flat boards, but before a yawning black pit. The blackness gleamed up at him as through a veil. He dropped a fragment of loosened wood into the pit. A moment later there came a little plop from the depths, and the blackness shivered. All at once Wharton shivered, also, and drew back.
Then he gave a little cry. Something had slipped from his pocket, and he made a frantic grab at it. Just in the nick of time he caught it, and he gulped almost hysterically in his relief. The thing he had caught was a little button, half-green and half-red, attached to a safety pin that dug into his hand as he clasped it.
He did not notice the pain of the prick, so great was his joy in saving the button from the black well below him. It was only when he opened his hand and saw blood on the palm that he realised the puncture.
‘Damn the pin!’ he muttered. ‘I must fix it!’
He would have done so there and then but for a rat. The rat darted out of a hole, and he stuffed the button quickly in his breast pocket as he jumped back. The rat blundered into him in its unintelligent, lightning scurry. ‘Get off, you brute!’ cried Wharton. He slammed the cupboard door and locked it. He thought no more about the button.
But for the rat, Wharton would have remedied the defect in the safety pin, and the button would not have slid out of his pocket several hours later into the hands of Ben, and many things yet to be related would not have occurred. Our belief in human power is rudely shaken by the thought that our biggest moments may be due to the most insignificant causes. A piece of banana skin may lead to the birth of a genius. A rat may open the door to horror.
Wharton left No. 29 with relief, and returned to No. 26. He found Flitt and the cat still at their post, the former fragrant with his recent default.
‘Clitheroe back yet?’ asked Wharton curtly.
‘No,’ answered Flitt thickly, ‘an’ I wouldn’t blub if he never came back!’
‘Shut up!’ snarled Wharton.
‘An’ Lizzie agrees with me,’ said Flitt. ‘Don’t yer, Lizz?’
Wharton seized him by the collar and shook him. Out of the corner of his angry eye he caught a glint of green. He turned. Jessica was on the stairs.
‘Thank goodness, you’ve come back!’ she exclaimed, almost resentfully. ‘Come upstairs!’
Wharton dropped the diminutive man he was shaking, and ran to the staircase. A moment later both he and the woman had disappeared.
‘One day, Lizzie,’ observed Flitt, picking himself up, ‘I’ll get them all.’
Ted Flitt looked very unpleasant at that moment. Lizzie turned her head away, as though she didn’t know him, and licked her paw.
CHAPTER XXII
THE FRIENDLY SURFACE
THE last thing Jack Hobart saw before losing consciousness was a woman’s face, and the same woman’s face was the first thing he saw when consciousness began to return to him.
Everything else was different. He was no longer in a study. There was no massive desk with a high back. Before the window was a dressing-table, while the window itself was in another position…But the woman’s face—yes, the woman’s face still moved vaguely within the confused arena of his vision, now bending over him, now a thousand miles distant, now here, now there. And since the face was the only familiar thing in a very queer world, he tried to hold on to it—to keep his eyes fixed on it—to use it as an anchor to hold him steady in the shifting sand. Odd that he should not feel more grateful to the face! It was helping him back to reality, assisting him to fight the demons of instability, and he ought to be filled with gratitude! Certainly it was beautiful enough. Yes, the beauty alone should have made him glad. Yet there was something wrong with it, something sinister. He was afraid of it even while its sight comforted him. Probably this was just an aftermath of his nightmare, a sort of clinging horror that hung around everything till he had gathered enough strength and sense to fight it off…
Then, abruptly, Hobart remembered. He knew now what was wrong with the face. Beneath the surface of beauty there lay some dark purpose of which he, Jack Hobart, had been the victim. He had not fallen ill. He had not suddenly fainted. He had been drugged by a cocktail mixed by this woman, and afterwards he must have been carried to this room. By her? Of course not! By the old man? The old man could hardly have managed it, either. No, Hobart had been carried by others who shared the dark purpose and who were also arraigned against him in this dismal house of which, ironically, he was the owner!
‘Careful—careful!’ he whispered to himself. Subtlety was needed here. ‘You have not come to yet, Jack Hobart! You are still unconscious! Remember—still unconscious! When you do come to, you must have your full wits and your full strength!’
So he closed his eyes again, and fought his confusion quietly, in the darkness. But he did not need his eyes to know when the woman who had duped him through her beauty was close to him. He could hear the rustle of her dress, and inhale the fragrance of her scent and hair. He could even sense her aura as she bent over him and peered into his face.
Now he felt her fingers on his temple. Now he heard her voice.
‘Poor fellow!’ she murmured.
Poor fellow?
Why this sympathy? That was wrong! She should have murmured, ‘Damned fool!’ Steady, Hobart, steady! Perhaps he had not heard correctly? His mind was beginning to go round again.
‘Oh—the brute!’
Again, her soft murmur, this time with fierce indignation in it. And, again, the words did not seem to fit the situation. Brute? Who was a brute? She could not think him a brute, for he had committed no brutal act in her presence. The brutality had been committed by others…Was she condemning others?
Once more he felt her fingers on his brow. He fought against the pleasure of her touch. He fought in vain. Without knowing it, he opened his eyes, to be certain that the fingers were real, and he found the woman’s eyes on his. They shone with relief. Impossible to continue his deception now.
‘Thank God!’ she exclaimed. ‘No, don’t talk for a moment! I thought you were never coming to!’
He closed his eyes again. He found that he couldn’t think while they were open.
‘That’s better!’ he heard her say. ‘Lie still. I’ll get some eau de cologne.’
He obeyed her. It was beyond him not to. Temporarily, he told himself. As soon as this weariness had passed off his brain would be active once more, and he would get everything straight. Meanwhile, the eau de cologne was wonderfully comforting…What colour were her eyes?…Her hair was auburn, of course. And she had long lashes, and marvellous, very red lips, and a dazzling white throat…in a moment he would simply have to re-open his eyes to see all these things again…
‘You’ve been drugged,’ said the woman. ‘Do you know it?’
He opened his eyes, and stared at her. He felt ridiculously impotent. She was telling him that he had been drugged, when she herself had drugged him!
‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking,’ she answered, as though he had spoken his thought. ‘You are thinking that I drugged you. Well, I did!’ She paused for an instant, gravely. ‘But I didn’t know I was doing it.’
‘Didn’t know it?’ murmured Hobart.
‘Of course, I didn’t know it!’ she responded, almost indignantly. ‘Why should I drug you? Tell me that?’
/> ‘There seems no reason,’ he said.
‘There was no reason! I can only assume that my father intended to drug you, and that he had already put the drug in the angostura. I’ve tested it since. If I hadn’t known what my own cocktail ought to have tasted like, I’d have shared your own fate, Mr Hobart. How are you feeling now?’
He shook his head.
‘I still don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Do you mean to say it was your father who intended to give me the dope?’
‘Do you mean to say,’ she retorted, frowning, ‘that yon still think I intended to give you the dope?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea what I mean, Miss Clitheroe,’ answered Hobart, ‘or what anything means. But I can tell you this. I’m going to know before I’m many minutes older! If what you say is correct, your father—forgive me—must be mad!’
‘I’ve already implied that I rather share your theory,’ she responded; ‘but it won’t help things to go round and round the mulberry bush! You’re not quite yourself again yet, I can see. Why not try and get a little proper sleep? Then you’ll be all right.’
He sat bolt upright at the suggestion, and told himself, lying hard, that he did not feel dizzy.
‘Sleep?’ he exclaimed, ‘Sleep again, when I’ve just woken up? Say, do you really think I’m quite such a baby as all that?’
‘Very well,’ she shot back. ‘Show you’re a big, sensible man, and walk out of this room! I suppose you know what you’ll meet?’
‘What? The British Army?’
‘No. My father’s army! He’s got a fixed idea in his head that—now you must forgive me—you’re an impostor, and he’s told the servants that you are. Why, you wouldn’t get as far as the next floor—’
‘Oh, what floor am I on then?’
‘The top floor. They carried you here. Exactly what my father’s idea is I don’t know, but I can tell you what my idea is. It’s just this. You’re not safe if I leave you. So the question is, shall I leave you or not? You can choose.’
Hobart looked at her closely. Was she genuine, or was she double-crossing him? Her story seemed fairly plausible. Obviously Mr Clitheroe was unbalanced, and obviously he was ill-disposed towards him; he might have designed to drug him and keep him a prisoner. Moreover, Hobart recalled that the woman had murmured expressions of sympathy while she had believed him to be still unconscious. Still…
‘How could you protect me—better than I could protect myself?’ he demanded.
‘I’m not at all sure that I can protect you,’ she answered. ‘That’s your own phrase. But I am sure you won’t be able to protect yourself if it comes to a scrap. It would be three to one, and my father has a revolver.’
‘Then where do you come in, anyway?’
‘I come in this way. By pretending to side with my father I have established myself as your jailer. As long as I am your jailer you ought to be secure.’
‘I see! And I’m just to stay here, like a good little boy, until tomorrow!’
‘Yes.’
‘And tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow, if you can’t get away, I’ll get the police to help us, and if necessary, I shall get my father certified. I’m not urging anything, Mr Hobart,’ she added. ‘You don’t look to me like a man who cares to act on anybody’s advice but his own.’ In that, she read him aright. ‘I’m just giving you the facts, and now the decision is up to you. Shall I go—or shall I stay?’
Again Hobart studied her, trying hard not to appear to be doing so. This was not easy, because she was returning his gaze fully; moreover, she was the sort of woman who was difficult to deceive. Her beauty was the beauty of experience, her glances were not the glances of an ingenuous novice. Yes, something in her expression troubled him constantly, and he could not say, in his clouded state, whether it were something inherent—some hardness of nature that even her beauty could not totally eradicate—or whether it were a reflection of his own distrust of her. A distrust that must be obvious to any intelligent or sensitive nature even if it were not openly expressed…
A disturbing idea darted into his brain…Those murmured words he had overheard while feigning unconsciousness! They were arguments in her favour. But suppose she had detected his deception? He recalled that he had opened his eyes previously for a few seconds, and if she had observed this and had utilised her knowledge, she might have murmured her sympathy with the special object of disarming him! In that case, would it not be best to double-cross her, as she would be double-crossing him? Indeed, of what possible benefit could it be to him to tell her that he still doubted her, thereby weakening her friendship if she were really his friend, or strengthening her enmity if she were really his enemy?
‘Yes, I must pretend to believe her, whether I actually do or not,’ he told himself.
And, that being so, he could postpone his final decision as to his belief until his clearing mind, coupled with ensuing facts, helped the decision to materialise. His external attitude, meanwhile, would be the same in either case.
‘Miss Clitheroe, I capitulate,’ he said, finding dissimulation surprisingly easy once he had accepted it as his policy. ‘For the moment I am in your hands, so please be sure you’re kind to me!’
She smiled, and her smile would have rendered a weaker man quite helpless. But Jack Hobart was not weak. He was merely, as he put it, ‘temporarily indisposed,’ with sufficient sense to realise the indisposition.
‘You’ve decided to trust me, then?’ she asked.
‘Sure, I have,’ he replied.
‘Well, here’s a chance to prove it,’ she said. ‘I’m going to pour out a glass of water and see whether you’ll drink it.’
‘Oh, I’ll drink it,’ he answered. ‘I need it like blazes! I’ll even shut my eyes while you pour it out, if you like, while you drop in the sugar!’
He closed his eyes, as still smiling, she turned to the wash-stand. But afterwards he watched her through slits while she poured the water out into a glass, and, apart from that first instant she was not out of his sight for a moment. Jack Hobart did not intend to go to sleep a second time.
‘Thanks,’ he said, as he took the glass from her hand. It was a perfectly manicured hand, the only blemish in Hobart’s opinion being the marked reddening of the nails. ‘Here’s to our new understanding!’
He drank half the water, and then laid the glass down beside him.
‘And now what?’ he inquired.
‘I suggest sleep.’
‘You suggested that before.’
‘A good thing bears repetition.’
‘No, thanks, marm!’
‘But you need rest—’
‘A doctor in Sydney once told me I needed a tonic. I poured the stuff away and got well without it. What I need tonight, Miss Clitheroe, is to keep awake. And, you bet, I’m going to!’
‘The new understanding isn’t beginning too well!’
‘Don’t worry! A difference in policy doesn’t necessarily imply a difference in interest. My policy is to keep awake, that’s all. Why, there may be a chance to slip away before tomorrow if we’re lucky and watch out for it. Besides—’
‘Besides—what?’ she asked, as he paused.
‘There’s you,’ he answered, looking at her fully again.
‘So the good-looking Australian is afraid of me!’ she observed, with a faint smile.
‘I reckon your own good looks might scare any man,’ he replied, responding to her smile. ‘But I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid for you.’
‘That needs explaining.’
‘I wish all things in life were as easy to explain. Why, suppose things go wrong here? Suppose they find out that you’re double-crossing them? A lot of use to you I’ll be if I’m dreaming of kangaroos!’
She sighed. Then, suddenly, she rose.
‘Well, if your mind’s fixed, I won’t try and alter it,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got a policy too. I’m going down to reconnoitre. Yon approve of that, I hope?’
�
�I think a little scouting would be a fine idea.’ He nodded, readily. ‘See you don’t get into any trouble, though.’
‘I promise,’ she answered. ‘You won’t mind if I lock you in, will you? I’ve got to do that—for appearances.’
A moment later she was gone.
As soon as the door had closed Jack Hobart sprang to his feet and ran to it. He heard the key click in the lock, and frowned. He did mind, very much. He wanted to charge down the stairs like a raging bull, hitting things.
On the other side of the door, the woman listened also, and learned by his breathing of his proximity.
‘When he gets his full strength back he’ll be able to bash that door down if he wants to,’ she reflected. ‘I can’t manage this alone!’
She hurried downstairs.
CHAPTER XXIII
MIDNIGHT
‘WELL, what’s the trouble?’ asked Wharton, as they mounted the stairs.
‘There’s going to be the hell of a lot of trouble,’ replied Jessica. ‘It’s my opinion the old man’s losing his head!’
‘All the more reason for keeping ours, my dear,’ said Wharton. ‘Spin the yarn. Is our friend upstairs coming out of the dope?’
‘He’s come out.’
‘The devil he has!’
‘And he refuses to lie quiet.’
‘That’s one against you, my dear. You should have made the stuff stronger. What’s happened?’
‘We’ve been double-crossing each other like blazes, that’s what’s happened—and we both know it!’
‘That’s another against you! Losing your art—or your nerve?’
‘We’ll all lose our nerve if this goes on much longer!’ she flashed back. They had reached the second floor, and were pausing outside a door. ‘Come inside. We’ve got to discuss things. Where’s Clitheroe?’
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