Blue Hand

by Edgar Wallace

  “There’s a house on the property,” said Villa, “but it is rather a tumbledown affair.”

  “It can’t be worse than Kennett Hall,” said Digby. “That will do splendidly. You can keep the girl there all night and bring her to Kennett Hall in the morning. I will be there to receive you. Tomorrow afternoon, just before sundown, we will take our final flight to the sea.”

  “What about Bronson?”

  “Bronson will have to be settled with,” said Digby, “but you can leave that to me.”

  He had his own views about Bronson which it was not expedient at the moment to discuss.

  “How are you going to get to the Hall?” asked the interested Villa.

  “You can leave that to me also,” said Digby with a frown. “Why are you so curious? I will tell you this much, that I intend taking on the car and travelling through the night.”

  “Why not take the girl by the car?” demanded the persistent Villa.

  “Because I want her to arrive at Kennett Hall by the only way that is safe. If the Hall is being watched, there is a chance of getting away again before they close in on us. No, I will be there before daybreak, and make a reconnaissance. In a case like this, I can trust nobody but myself, and what is more, Villa, I know the people who are watching me. Now, do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, my friend,” said Villa jovially; “as to that little matter of sharing out—”

  “The money is here,” said Digby, tapping his waist, “and you will have no cause to complain. There is much to be done yet—we have not seen the worst of our adventures.”

  For Eunice Weldon the worst was, for the moment, a splitting headache which made it an agony to lift her head from the pillow. She seemed to have passed through the day in a condition which was neither wakefulness nor sleep. She tried to remember what had happened and where she was, but the effort was so painful that she was content to lie with her throbbing head, glad that she was left alone. Several times the thought of Digby Groat came through her mind, but he was so inexplicably confused with Jim Steele that she could not separate the two personalities.

  Where she was she neither knew nor cared. She was lying down and she was quiet—that satisfied her. Once she was conscious of a sharp stinging sensation in her right arm, and soon after she must have gone to sleep again, only to wake with her head racked with shooting pains as though somebody was driving red-hot nails into her brain.

  At last it became so unendurable that she groaned, and a voice near her—an anxious voice, she thought—said;

  “Have you any pain?”

  “My head,” she murmured. “It is dreadful!”

  She was conscious of a “tut” of impatience, and almost immediately afterwards somebody’s arm was round her neck and a glass was held to her lips.

  “Drink this,” said the voice.

  She swallowed a bitter draught and made a grimace of distaste.

  “That was nasty,” she said.

  “Don’t talk,” said the voice. Digby was seriously alarmed at the condition in which he found her when he had returned from a visit of reconnaissance. Her colour was bad, her breathing difficult and her pulse almost imperceptible. He had feared this, and yet he must continue his “treatment.”

  He looked down at her frowningly and felt some satisfaction when he saw the colour creep back to the wax-like face, and felt the throb of the pulse under his fingers.

  As to Eunice, the sudden release from pain which came almost immediately after she had taken the draught, was so heavenly that she would have been on her knees in gratitude to the man who had accomplished the miracle, and with relief from pain came sleep.

  Digby heaved a sigh of relief and went back to his work. It was very pleasant work for him, for the table was covered with little packages of five thousand dollar gold bills, for he had been successful in drawing the funds of the Thirteen and exchanging them for American money. He did not want to find himself in Brazil with a wad of English notes which he could not change because the numbers had been notified.

  His work finished, he strapped the belt about his waist and proceeded leisurely to prepare for the journey. A grey wig changed the appearance of his face, but he was not relying upon that disguise. Locking the door, he stripped himself of his clothes and began to dress deliberately and carefully.

  It was nearly eight o’clock that night when Eunice returned to consciousness. Beyond an unquenchable thirst, she felt no distress. The room was dimly illuminated by a small oil-lamp that stood on the washstand, and the first thing that attracted her eye, after she had drunk long and eagerly from the glass of water that stood on the table by the side of the bed, was a beautiful evening dress of silver tissue which hung over the back of the chair. Then she saw pinned to the side of the pillow a card. It was not exactly the same shade of grey that Digby and she had received in the early stages of their acquaintance. Digby had failed to find the right colour in his search at the local stationers, but he had very carefully imitated the pen-print with which the mysterious woman in black had communicated her warnings, and the girl reading at first without understanding and then with a wildly beating heart, the message of the card saw her safely assured.

  “Dress in the clothes you will find here, and if you obey me without question I will save you from an ignominious fate. I will call for you but you must not speak to me. We are going to the north in order to escape Digby Groat.”

  The message was signed with a rough drawing of the Blue Hand.

  She was trembling in every limb, for now the events of the past few days were slowly looming through the fog with which the drugs had clouded her brain. She was in the power of Digby Groat, and the mysterious woman in black was coming to her rescue. It did not seem possible. She stood up and almost collapsed, for her head was humming and her knees seemed incapable of sustaining her weight. She held on to the head of the bedstead for several minutes before she dared begin to dress.

  She forgot her raging thirst, almost forgot her weakness, as with trembling hands she fastened the beautiful dress about her and slipped on the silk stockings and satin shoes. Why did the mysterious woman in black choose this conspicuous dress, she wondered, if she feared that Digby Groat would be watching for her? She could not think consecutively. She must trust her rescuer blindly, she thought. She did her hair before the tiny mirror and was shocked to see her face. About her eyes were great dark circles; she had the appearance of one who was in a wasting sickness.

  “I’m glad Jim can’t see you, Eunice Weldon,” she said, and the thought of Jim acted as a tonic and a spur.

  Her man! How she had hurt him. She stopped suddenly in the act of brushing her hair. She remembered their last interview. Jim said she was the daughter of Lady Mary Danton! It couldn’t be true, and yet Jim had said it, and that gave it authority beyond question. She stared at her reflection, and then the effort of thought made her head whirl again and she sat down.

  “I mustn’t think, I mustn’t think,” she muttered, and yet thoughts and doubts, questions and speculations, crowded in upon her. Lady Mary Danton was her mother! She was the woman who had come into Jim’s flat. There was a tap at the door and she started. Was it Digby Groat? Digby who had brought her here?

  “Come in,” she said faintly.

  The door opened but the visitor did not enter, and she saw, standing on the little landing, a woman in black, heavily veiled, who beckoned to her to follow. She rose unsteadily and moved towards her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, and then, “Thank you, thank you a thousand times, for all you are doing for me!”

  The woman made no reply, but walked down the stairs, and Eunice went after her.

  It was a dark night; rain was falling heavily and the mews was deserted except for the taxi-cab which was drawn up at the door. The woman opened the door of the cab and followed Eunice into its dark interior.

  “You must not ask questions,” she whispered. “There is a hood to your coat. Pull it over your head.”<
br />
  What did it mean? Eunice wondered.

  She was safe, but why were they going out of London? Perhaps Jim awaited her at the end of the journey and the danger was greater than she had imagined. Whither had Digby Groat gone, and how had this mysterious woman in black got him out of the way? She put her hand to her head. She must wait. She must have patience. All would be revealed to her in good time—and she would see Jim!

  The two people who were interested in the departure of the eleven-forty-five train for the north, did not think it was unusual to see a girl in evening dress, accompanied by a woman in mourning, take their places in a reserved compartment. It was a train very popular with those visitors to London who wanted to see a theatre before they left, and the detective who was watching on the departure platform, scrutinizing every man who was accompanied by a woman, gave no attention to the girl in evening dress and, as they thought, her mother. Perhaps if she had not been so attired, they might have looked more closely—Digby Groat was a great student of human nature.

  Lady Mary, in her restlessness, had come to Euston to supplement the watch of the detectives, and had passed every carriage and its occupants under review just before Eunice had taken her seat.

  “Sit in the corner,” whispered the “woman,” “and do not look at the platform. I am afraid Groat will be on the look-out for me.”

  The girl obeyed and Lady Mary, walking back, seeing the young girl in evening dress, whose face was hidden from her, never dreamt of making any closer inspection. The detective strolled along the platform with her towards the entrance.

  “I am afraid there will be no more trains tonight, my lady,” said the bearded officer, and she nodded. “I should think they’ve left by motor-car.”

  “Every road is watched now,” said Lady Mary quietly, “and it is impossible for them to get out of London by road.”

  At the moment the train, with a shrill whistle, began to move slowly out of the station.

  “May I look now?” said Eunice, and the “woman” in black nodded.

  Eunice turned her head to the platform and then with a cry, started up.

  “Why, why,” she cried wildly, “there is Mrs. Fane—Lady Mary, my mother!”

  Another instant, and she was dragged back to her seat, and a hateful voice hissed in her ear; “Sit down!” The “woman” in black snapped down the blind and raised “her” veil. But Eunice knew that it was Digby Groat before she saw the yellow face of the man.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE recognition had been mutual. Lady Mary had seen that white face, those staring eyes, for a second, and then the train had rolled quickly past her, leaving her momentarily paralysed.

  “There, there!” she gasped, pointing. “Stop the train!”

  The detective looked round. There was no official in sight, and he tore back to the barriers, followed by Lady Mary. He could discover nobody with authority to act.

  “I’ll find the station-master,” he cried. “Can you telephone anywhere?”

  There was a telephone booth within a few yards and her first thought was of Jim.

  Jim was sitting in his room, his head in his hands, when the telephone bell rang, and he went listlessly to answer the call. It was Lady Mary speaking.

  “Eunice is on the northern train that has just left the station,” she said, speaking rapidly. “We are trying to stop it at Willesden, but I am afraid it will be impossible. Oh, for God’s sake do something, Jim!”

  “On the northern train?” he gasped. “How long has it left?”

  “A few seconds ago….”

  He dropped the receiver, threw open the door and ran downstairs. In that moment his decision had been taken. Like a flash there had come back to his mind a sunny afternoon when, with Eunice at his side, he had watched a daring little boy pulling himself across the lines by the telegraph wire which crossed the railway from one side to the other. He darted into the courtyard and as he mounted the wall he beard the rumble and roar of the train in the tunnel.

  It would be moving slowly because the gradient was a stiff one. From which tunnel would it emerge? There were two black openings and it might be from either. He must risk that, he thought, and reaching up for a telegraph wire, swung himself over the coping. The wires would be strong enough to hold a boy. Would they support him? He felt them sagging and heard an ominous creak from the post which was in the courtyard, but he must risk that too. Hand over hand he went, and presently he saw with consternation the gleam of a light from the farther tunnel. In frantic haste he pulled himself across. There was no time for caution. The engine, labouring heavily, had passed before he came above the line. Now he was over the white-topped carriages, and his legs were curled up to avoid contact with them. He let go and dropped on his foot. The movement of the carriage threw him down and he all but fell over the side, but gripping to a ventilator, he managed to scramble to his knees.

  As he did so he saw the danger ahead. The train was running into a second tunnel. He had only time to throw himself flat on the carriage, before he was all but suffocated by the sulphur fumes which filled the tunnel. He was on the right train, he was certain of that, as he lay gasping and coughing, but it would need all his strength to hold himself in position when the driver began to work up speed.

  He realized, when they came out again into the open, that it was raining, and raining, heavily. In a few minutes he was wet through, but he clung grimly to his perilous hold. Would Lady Mary succeed in stopping the train at Willesden? The answer came when they flashed through that junction, gathering speed at every minute.

  The carriages rocked left and right and the rain-splashed roofs were as smooth as glass. It was only by twining his legs about one ventilator, and holding on to the other, that he succeeded in retaining his hold at all. But it was for her sake. For the sake of the woman he loved, he told himself, when utter weariness almost forced him to release his grip. Faster and faster grew the speed of the train, and now in addition to the misery the stinging rain caused him, he was bombarded by flying cinders and sparks from the engine.

  His coat was smouldering in a dozen places, in spite of its sodden condition, his eyes were grimed and smarting with the dust which the rain washed into them, and the agony of the attacks of cramp, which were becoming more and more frequent, was almost unendurable. But he held on as the train roared through the night, flashing through little wayside stations, diving into smoky tunnels, and all the time rocking left and right, so that it seemed miraculous that it was able to keep the rails.

  It seemed a century before there came from the darkness ahead a bewildering tangle of red and green lights. They were reaching Rugby and the train was already slowing. Suddenly it stopped with unusual suddenness and Jim was jerked from his hold. He made a wild claw at the nearest ventilator, but he missed his hold and fell with a thud down a steep bank, rolling over and over… another second, and he fell with a splash into water.

  The journey had been one of terror for Eunice Danton. She understood now the trick that had been played upon her. Digby Groat had known she would never leave willingly and had feared to use his dope lest her appearance betrayed him. He had guessed that in his disguise of the woman in black she would obey him instantly, and now she began to understand why he had chosen evening dress for her.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  He had drawn the blinds of the carriage and was smoking a cigarette.

  “If I had known you would ask that question,” he said sarcastically, “I would have had a guide book prepared. As it is, you must possess your soul in patience, and wait until you discover your destination.”

  There was only one carriage on the train which was not a corridor car, and Digby had carefully chosen that for his reservation. It was a local car that would be detached at Rugby, as he knew, and the possibility of an interruption was remote. Once or twice he had looked up to the ceiling and frowned. The girl, who had caught a scratching sound, as though somebody was crawling along t
he roof of the carriage, watched him as he pulled down the window and thrust out head and shoulders. He drew in immediately, his face wet with rain.

  “It is a filthy night,” he said as he pulled down the blinds again. “Now, Eunice, be a sensible girl. There are worse things that could happen to you than to marry me.”

  “I should like to know what they were,” said Eunice calmly. The effect of the drug had almost worn oft and she was near to her normal self.

  “I have told you before,” said Digby, puffing a ring of smoke to the ceiling, “that if your imagination will not supply you with a worse alternative, you are a singularly stupid young person, and you are not stupid.” He stopped. Suddenly he changed his tone and, throwing the cigarette on to the ground, he came over to her and sat by her side. “I want you, Eunice,” he said, his voice trembling and his eyes like fiery stars. “Don’t you understand I want you? That you are necessary to me. I couldn’t live without you now. I would sooner see you dead, and myself dead too, than hand you to Jim Steele, or any other man.” His arm was about her, his face so close to hers that she could feel his quick breath upon her cheek. “You understand?” he said in a low voice. “I would sooner see you dead. That is an alternative for you to ponder on.”

  “There are worse things than death.”

  “I’m glad you recognize that,” said Digby, recovering his self-possession with a laugh. He must not frighten her at this stage of the flight. The real difficulties of the journey were not yet passed.

  As to Eunice, she was thinking quickly. The train must stop soon, she thought, and though he kill her she would appeal for help. She hated him now, with a loathing beyond description—seeing in him the ugly reality, and her soul shrank in horror from the prospect he had opened up to her. His real alternative she knew and understood only too well. It was not death—that would be merciful and final. His plan was to degrade her so that she would never again hold up her head, nor meet Jim’s tender eyes. So that she would, in desperation, agree to marriage to save her name from disgrace, and her children from shame.