Wharton had gone, yet here, surely, was Wharton again. The figure was of the same height and the same build, and was dressed in almost identical clothing.
‘I reckon you didn’t help yourself when you poked your nose into other people’s business!’ muttered Mr Clitheroe vengefully. ‘There’s no chance of your ever seeing Australia again, my friend.’
He caught hold of the figure and, with surprising strength, dragged it out. He dragged it to the spot where Wharton had fallen, and arranged it in a similar position. Then he went out into the passage, and just managed to prevent himself from jumping. Mahdi stood regarding him.
‘Go back!’ ordered Mahdi quietly.
Mr Clitheroe retreated into the room without a word. The Indian followed him and closed the door.
‘And still you bungle,’ said Mahdi.
‘If you refer to the tramp, I refuse to admit that I’ve bungled any more than you have,’ retorted the old man.
‘Do not argue,’ answered the Indian. ‘You continue to bungle.’
‘How?’
‘What did you tell Wharton to do?’
‘I told him to settle the fellow.’
‘And what did you mean by “settle”?’
‘It ought to be clear enough.’
‘That is your weakness. “Ought to be.” I have altered your instruction—or, as you may claim, defined it. Wharton has now gone to kill the tramp.’
‘I see,’ sneered Mr Clitheroe. ‘What’s a murder more or less to you, Mahdi? You see that you get no responsibility for them!’
‘I did, not know, that you had a tender heart, Mr Clitheroe.’
‘Damn it, who’s tender? But there’s such a thing as wisdom, isn’t there? Two murders in one night might take some getting away with.’
‘Two!’
‘Have you forgotten this fellow?’
Mr Clitheroe pointed to the Australian on the ground. The Indian smiled.
‘Oh, no! I have not forgotten Mr Hobart! But it is not yet decided that Mr Hobart is to be killed.’
‘You decided we were to stick him down the well.’
‘But now the tramp is going down the well.’ Mahdi smiled again. ‘We must think of the traffic congestion.’
‘I suppose that means you’ve changed your plan again!’ exclaimed Mr Clitheroe. ‘Or, rather,’ he added savagely, ‘my plan?’
‘It is necessary to be elastic when those who carry out plans make continual mistakes,’ the Indian pointed out. ‘With a patience that has its limit, Mr Clitheroe, I have several times changed your plan to remedy your own defects. And so, now, I say that Mr Hobart will not, after all, go down the well.’
‘Where will he go, then, after I have done with him?’
‘Back into the nice, long box where he has spent most of the night.’
‘And then?’
‘The van will call for the box. The box of books, you understand.’
‘Yes, yes. And where will the van go?’
Mahdi paused for an instant. His eyes grew cold and steely.
‘That is nothing to do with you, Mr Clitheroe,’ he answered. ‘If, for once, I take a murder off your hands, you should be grateful. But be sure of this. Mr Hobart will not trouble you any further. He will pay the price of his interference in another place, and before another judge. And so—’ His white teeth suddenly snapped together, and a look darted into his eyes that even made Mr Clitheroe shiver. ‘And so will—that girl!’
‘Ah, that girl!’ murmured the old man. ‘Yes, she will certainly have to be dealt with. I can well imagine, Mahdi,’ he added maliciously, ‘that you will want to settle with the fair lady yourself!’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, she is waiting for you in her temporary prison, and Mr Hobart will be waiting for you in the nice, long box, so you can call for your captives when you want them, and take ’em to the end of hell, as far as I care. Meanwhile, may I get on with my business?’
‘It is necessary that you do,’ replied Mahdi.
And, his own immediate business accomplished, he slipped quickly from the room.
Mr Clitheroe took a deep breath, then darted out after him. The Indian had vanished. His absence was a relief, though not the abrupt manner of it. Mahdi’s comings and goings were always unnerving. Moving to the top flight of stairs, Mr Clitheroe ascended. He found Jessica waiting for him in the attic room.
‘Well?’ she asked, turning quickly as he entered. ‘Has everything gone all right, or are we in an unholy mess?’
‘Everything has gone all right!’ snapped the old man. ‘And now it’s your turn to see that things continue to go right. Come along down.’
‘Politeness doesn’t cost anything,’ she snapped back. ‘But perhaps Mahdi has been getting on your nerves?’
‘Be quiet! I don’t want any comments. Our young fools are in the back room, and you’re to go in and look after Miss Sherwin.’
‘While you finish your conversation, with the other young fool?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And what happens after that?’
‘We send ’em home.’
‘Together?’
Mr Clitheroe considered. ‘Yes, I think so,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Probably, when I’ve finished my chat with the boy, I’ll have the girl in and then we can send them off in a taxi with a friendly pat.’ He did not smile at his own cynicism. ‘But be ready for anything. With Mahdi around, there’s no knowing where all this is going to end.’
‘Who else is around?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where’s Wharton?’
Mr Clitheroe had been waiting for that. He swallowed.
‘Wharton is across the way.’
‘What’s he doing across the way?’
‘Killing a tramp.’
Jessica stared at him. He stared back. The same thought was chasing through both minds. Was this tramp killable?
‘That man’s a boomerang!’ exclaimed Jessica.
‘Forget him!’ barked Mr Clitheroe. ‘He’s boomed his last by now, at any rate. Oh, come along! What are we standing here for?’
‘Because I want to know the whole position,’ she retorted. ‘Where’s Flitt?’
‘At the door.’
‘And the damned spy who calls herself Nadine?’
‘Still locked up.’
‘Well, things seem water-tight. But, as you say, we’ve got to be ready for anything—and it isn’t only Mahdi we’ve got to look out for. Carry on, Daddy. My God, won’t I be glad when I’ve seen the last of you!’
They descended the stairs. They reached the door of the room in which Douglas and Doris were locked.
‘No need for me to go in,’ muttered Mr Clitheroe, as he turned the key. ‘Send the boy in to me—I’ll be waiting in the front room for him.’
‘With pleasure—if he’s not too good looking,’ answered Jessica sarcastically.
They separated. The old man re-entered the front room where the unconscious Australian still lay. He glanced unsympathetically at the helpless figure, then raised his eyes to the window at the other end of the room.
‘Wharton’s a damn time,’ he muttered. ‘Why the devil isn’t he back?’
CHAPTER XXIX
THE TERMS OF SILENCE
THE door opened behind Mr Clitheroe, and he turned. Douglas Randall stood in the doorway.
The boy was spiritless, beaten, The terror of his position and the enormity of the act he believed he had committed—was not the evidence of the act still on the floor?—had carried him into a condition he had only previously experienced in nightmare, and he was incapable of dealing with it. Added to his own terror was his terror for his fiancée. Numb and helpless, he was at the mercy of any stronger will that cared to direct him. And Mr Clitheroe, watching him, was well aware of this.
‘Come in, Mr Randall,’ the old man said, ‘and close the door behind you.’
The boy obeyed.
‘This is a terrible business,’ Mr Clitheroe went on, scarce
ly troubling to assume the sympathy he did not feel. Douglas was deadened to the finer shades of acting. ‘Have you thought out yet what you’re going to do?’
The boy shook his head.
‘Then let me try and help you, Mr Randall, by telling you the precise position. I’ll not mince words. I’ll give you the exact facts. And I know the facts, because—in your interests—I’ve been ascertaining them while you’ve been waiting in the next room. The first fact is that you have killed the leader of a rascally gang. The second is that the members of the rascally gang are mighty angry about it. I’ve been interviewing one or two of them below. And the third is that, unless they receive what they term “compensation” of a very substantial nature, they will retaliate.’
Mr Clitheroe paused, to let the final word sink in. Douglas gripped the back of a chair, but said nothing.
‘Of course, we could go to the police,’ resumed Mr Clitheroe. ‘That, in other circumstances, would be the obvious course. But would that assist you? You must decide. If you go to the police you must confess to the murder—’
‘Is it murder to kill a rat like that?’ interrupted Douglas, finding his voice at last. It was a high and emotional voice, and Mr Clitheroe raised a finger warningly.
‘A little softer—be advised—a little softer,’ he murmured, thereby killing the boy’s tiny flicker of spirit. ‘A rat? Yes, certainly. And rats are best out of the way. But one cannot anticipate the decision of a judge and jury in a criminal court’—Douglas shuddered, as it was intended he should—‘and before you proved he was a rat you and Miss Sherwin would be dragged through a pretty shattering experience.’
‘Why Miss Sherwin?’ muttered Douglas.
Mr Clitheroe regarded him almost pityingly as he responded. ‘Because, quite apart from Miss Sherwin’s interest in you, she could not be kept out of it. The motive for the murder’—he insisted on using the word—‘would be discussed, and also the reason for the interview at which the murder took place. There is no possible way in which Miss Sherwin could be kept out of it. And what happens to you, Mr Randall, is only one side of the question. What happens to Miss Sherwin is the other side. Unless compensation is paid, I am afraid there will be a second murder, of which Miss Sherwin herself will be the victim.’
‘Then I’ve got to go to the police!’ exclaimed Douglas.
‘And so expedite the carrying out of the threat?’ asked the old man. ‘Believe me, Mr Randall, these fellows mean business, and if you go to the police you will deprive both Miss Sherwin and yourself of your only chances of security.’
‘What do you suggest I ought to do, then?’ said Douglas.
‘Well, you could pay the compensation.’
‘How much would that be?’
‘They have asked for twenty thousand pounds; but I might beat them down a little.’
‘Twenty thousand—’
‘Yes, it is outrageous. But fortunately you have it. You have considerably more. It may be a small price to pay, after all, for your fiancee’s safety—and your happiness.’
‘Her safety, yes! But where would the happiness be?’
Mr Clitheroe shrugged his shoulders.
‘If I were in your shoes—engaged to a charming girl—I would hardly ask that question, Mr Randall,’ observed the old man, with a touch of irony.
‘But—that! That!’ gasped Douglas, suddenly pointing to the figure on the ground.
‘That could be dealt with—if we decided to make a bold bid for the happiness.’
‘Dealt with?’
‘I said so.’
‘How?’
Mr Clitheroe paused; then explained:
‘Listen to me attentively, Mr Randall,’ he said. ‘And remember that, in what I am about to say, I have no personal interest. I merely say it as your friend. My only personal gain, if you agree to my proposal, will be that my home would not be associated with a murder trial and I should escape interviewers and sight-seers—and for this small benefit I should be taking a distinct personal risk. Now, then. Do you remember a long wooden case in the room you have just come from?’
‘I—I think I do.’
‘Did anything strike you about it?’
‘No’
‘Does it—now?’ The young man stared, as an incredulous idea began to form in his muddled mind. ‘Yes, I see, it does. That case, Mr Randall, was delivered to me recently from a second-hand bookseller in Charing Cross Road. I bought a large number of old encyclopædias and volumes, and his van delivered them in that somewhat unpleasant-looking box. I thought at the time that the box bore an odd resemblance to a coffin. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’ muttered Douglas.
‘But surely you do?’ protested the old man. ‘Why make me say things that might be more happily understood between us? However, if you insist…I had intended to have the box chopped up for firewood. I could however, re-sell the old books to our rascals downstairs, and they could cart it away—with its contents—to some distant spot,’ He glanced down at the figure on the ground. ‘Now do you know what I mean, Mr Randall!’
Douglas nodded and swallowed.
‘Would they—do it?’ he managed to ask.
‘They have already agreed to do it,’ answered Mr Clitheroe, ‘provided they get their compensation. Believe me, I have been fully occupied since I saw you last, and I have learned exactly how the land lies. It will not help them to have this made public, and they are quite willing to help you to keep it quiet—for a price.’
‘Yes, but look here!’ exclaimed Douglas, while perspiration stood on his brow. In response to another warning gesture by Mr Clitheroe, he went on in a lower voice, ‘Look here! If—if they take the—if they take him away in the case, what will they do with him?’
Mr Clitheroe smiled sourly.
‘That, surely, need not concern you?’ he suggested.
‘I don’t know about it. They may hold it over me.’
‘Yes, they may hold it over you, and they may follow their present claim with further claims.’
‘Well, then—’
‘But are you in a position to dictate? Isn’t it better, at the moment, to take the one and only chance you have? Of course, if you think otherwise, then you must go ahead and allow the matter to become public. You will be tried for murder, and Miss Sherwin will go in terror of her life.’
‘God!’ groaned the boy. ‘Let me think—let me think!’
‘I have even provided for your thought,’ answered Mr Clitheroe. ‘When they demanded their absurd sum—twenty thousand pounds—I told them that it was hardly likely that you carried so much about with you in your pocket. I implied that you would need a little time, and suggested that you should be given till this evening to decide—and to make your arrangements. At nine o’clock they will send the van for the case. They will take away the case—and its contents—if by that time you have agreed to their demands and have returned here with the money, or with some form of security covering the amount. I believe,’ went on Mr Clitheroe smoothly, ‘they will come down to fifteen thousand. I suggest that you regard that as the figure, and stick to it. After all, unless I am wrongly informed, you possess well over a hundred thousand, so you will have plenty left—’
‘For them to bleed me of later on?’
‘Perhaps. I hope not. If they press you again, we may find some way of dealing with them that is impossible at the moment. Meanwhile, at least, we shall have secured Miss Sherwin’s safety. So, what do you say?’
‘I seem to have no alternative,’ muttered Douglas. ‘But for God’s sake let me get out of this house now. Can’t you see, I’m not able to think yet—I’m not able to think—’
‘Naturally not, naturally not!’ nodded Mr Clitheroe. ‘But, am I to expect you back?’
‘Yes, yes!’
‘Good! Then let us now take the first step towards the security you need by—er—disposing of our—of our friend here. It will obviously not do to let him remain on my f
loor any longer. Will you help me to—er—convey him into the next room? Let me think. Yes. My daughter had better take Miss Sherwin upstairs while the removal is in progress—’
The lack of sympathy in the old man’s attitude suddenly smote the other’s clouded brain.
‘By God, sir!’ he burst out. ‘Aren’t you damned callous?’
Mr Clitheroe realised his lapse, and converted it to his own advantage. Instead of showing the sympathy that was wanted of him, he suddenly stiffened.
‘You seem to forget, Mr Randall,’ he said coldly, ‘that after all, I am assisting a man who potentially is wanted by the police. Do you really expect me to shower affection on you?’ Douglas stared. ‘Let my acts speak of my friendship,’ said Mr Clitheroe, ‘and forgive me if my attitude reflects a certain conventional distaste for murder. Now then, will you help me?’
Douglas crumpled. He had no more fight in him. He removed his haunted eyes from Mr Clitheroe to the even less appetising sight on the carpet. And, as he did so, the front door bell rang below.
‘Who the devil’s that?’ exclaimed Mr Clitheroe sharply. He hastened to the window and peered down. He grunted in annoyance. The roof of the porch obscured the visitor from view.
CHAPTER XXX
BEN GETS IN
DOORSTEPS have been neglected by the historian. He has dilated on the varying atmosphere of towns and of streets, of houses and rooms and cupboards, but he has passed over the doorstep as though, indeed, no significance lay beneath its superficial transitory mission. You, however, do more than pass over a doorstep. You pause upon it. You wait upon it. You hope, or fear, or yawn, or grow tense upon it. In the little interim between arrival and departure you may pass through a lifetime of emotion or remain as static as a stone.
Ben, on the doorstep of No. 26 Jowle Street, passed through a lifetime of emotion. True he was outwardly static. His attitude, judged physically, was statuesque in its denial of the laws of movement, but beneath the unpolished surface of the statue terrific things were happening, and he was enduring the whole gamut of vivid and ghastly experience.
Now the door was being opened by a mad old man, and the mad old man had a carving knife. ‘Come in!’ said the mad old man. ‘Wot’s that for?’ asked Ben, his eyes glued to the knife. ‘For you, darling,’ answered the mad old man. And he stuck the knife into Ben’s chest, and Ben died with a swish like a pricked balloon, and while he was wondering which way he was going the old man beckoned to an Indian, and they pulled his wishbone…
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