The Hand of Fear

by Gerald Verner

  Farringdon’s sudden suspicion was confirmed when he spoke. Mr. Clifford Feldon had been drinking, and was within measurable distance of being drunk.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ he asked thickly. ‘We’ve had no peace since the murder. The place has been overrun with you reporters.’

  ‘I wish to have a few words with you concerning Mr. Felix Dexon,’ said Farringdon, and the result of his words was extraordinary. The man’s white face went a dirty grey and he staggered slightly.

  ‘I don’t know anything about him!’ he cried. ‘Why do you come and worry me? Why should I know anything?’

  ‘I understand that you are one of his greatest friends,’ said the reporter, ‘and as I want some information regarding Mr. Dexon I naturally came to you.’

  ‘I can give you no information,’ said Mr. Feldon with an irritable gesture.

  The man’s nerves were in a pretty bad way, thought Farringdon. There was a lurking fear in every movement, and drink had not done anything to help matters. He kept on throwing nervous glances over his shoulder as though he expected somebody else to come into the room. There was no doubt about it — Mr. Clifford Feldon was frightened, and badly frightened at that. The question was, what had scared him? Farringdon’s visit, or something else?

  ‘Why should you think I could tell you anything about Dexon?’ he went on, mastering his emotions by a prodigious effort. ‘He’s gone away, hasn’t he? I haven’t seen him for over two years.’

  ‘I’m not saying that you have, Mr. Feldon,’ said Farringdon smoothly. ‘But you were with him, I believe, just before he disappeared.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ shouted Clifford Feldon. ‘I never saw him on the day he disappeared. And anyway, what’s it got to do with you? What’s it got to do with anybody? He went away of his own accord, didn’t he?’

  ‘That is a question I can’t answer,’ replied the reporter, eyeing the man steadily. ‘And it is for that very purpose I’ve come to see you. Did Felix Dexon disappear of his own accord?’

  Feldon stared at him, and then passed the tip of his tongue over his dry lips. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he muttered hoarsely.

  Farringdon decided on a bold stroke. In the man’s present condition it might have some effect. ‘This is what I mean,’ he said, speaking slowly and deliberately. ‘There is every reason to believe that Felix Dexon is being held prisoner somewhere, most probably somewhere in this neighbourhood.’

  His words certainly achieved an effect — an electrical effect. Clifford Feldon went limp like a pricked balloon, and had to grip the edge of the desk for support. ‘It’s a lie!’ he choked. ‘A lie! Dexon went away of own accord, I tell you. Why bring all this up again? The inquiry was dropped.’ He broke off abruptly and glanced uneasily about him. ‘I’m not well,’ he mumbled, lowering his trembling limbs into a chair. ‘I’ve had a lot of worry lately.’

  ‘The greatest of your worries could be removed if you were to tell me what you know concerning Felix Dexon,’ aid Farringdon

  ‘I know nothing,’ stammered Feldon. ‘Why do you keep pestering me? Why don’t you leave me alone?’

  The reporter shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps you would prefer the police to question you?’ he suggested. It was sheer bluff, but it had the effect he desired. The man started half out of his chair.

  ‘No, no, no!’ he almost screamed. ‘Oh, God! Am I never going to have any peace?’

  ‘Mr. Feldon,’ said Farringdon a little more gently, ‘it’s useless denying that you know anything. You’re giving yourself away by every word and action. Why not tell me the truth?’

  Feldon raised his haggard face and stared at his questioner. ‘If only I dared,’ he whispered. And then: ‘No, no! I don’t know what I’m saying. Take no notice of me. I don’t know what I’m saying.’ He glanced round him again suspiciously, as though fearful of a possible eavesdropper.

  ‘You’re afraid of someone,’ said Farringdon suddenly. ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m not afraid of anybody. I’m ill, that’s all. Why don’t you go and leave me alone?’

  ‘You’re ill because you’re frightened,’ retorted the reporter, ‘and because you’ve been trying to bolster up your courage with drink. Come, Mr. Feldon, will you tell me all that you know, or must I go and tell the police what I suspect?’ He was taking a risk and he knew it. If Feldon was an innocent man, he could make it very unpleasant indeed for Farringdon.

  There was a long silence, so long that the reporter was on the point of breaking it when Feldon spoke. ‘Supposing,’ he said hesitantly, ‘a man had been forced into doing something — something criminal — because he couldn’t help it; because the — person who made him do it knew something about him and held that something over his head? What would be his position with regard to the law?’

  ‘You mean if he’d been blackmailed into a criminal act against his will?’ said Farringdon.

  The other nodded.

  ‘The law would undoubtedly take into account the circumstances, particularly if the man you mentioned did all in his power to help by telling all he knew.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Mr. Street,’ — Feldon leaned forward eagerly — ‘I am the man I was speaking about. For over four years I have been at the mercy of a scoundrel who has bled me consistently and forced me to do his bidding. Perhaps you can help me. You are not connected with the police.’

  ‘What is this man’s name?’ asked Farringdon quickly.

  ‘His name —’ began Feldon, and then he sat up with a jerk. ‘What was that?’ he cried shrilly.

  ‘I heard nothing,’ answered the reporter.

  ‘There was a noise — over there.’ The grey-haired man looked apprehensively towards the window. ‘Yes, there it is again — there’s somebody outside the window!’

  ‘It’s only your imagination,’ said Farringdon, and going over he looked out into the garden. There was neither sight nor sound of anyone. ‘There’s nobody there.’

  Feldon was shaking like a leaf, his face ashen.

  ‘You were going to tell me the name of —’ began the reporter, but the other shook his head.

  ‘I can’t tell you here,’ he whispered frantically, ‘but I will tell you — I’ll tell you everything. I can’t go on like this. It’s killing me. I’ll tell you tonight. Do you know this place?’

  ‘No,’ answered Farringdon. ‘This is the first time I’ve been here.’

  ‘Well,’ — Feldon spoke rapidly and jerkily — ‘there’s a golf course — goes down the valley — the first tee is over in the corner of the central garden. You can’t miss it. I’ll meet you there — at twelve o’clock tonight.’

  ‘Why not now?’ urged the reporter, who was afraid that in the interval the man might change his mind.

  ‘No, no! There are eyes and ears watching and listening everywhere,’ said the other nervously. ‘You’re afraid I’ll change my mind? You needn’t be. I’ll be there, and I’ll tell you everything.’ He stared at the window. ‘What do you think of this place, eh? Beautiful, isn’t it? A paradise. A fairyland.’

  ‘It certainly is very lovely,’ answered Farringdon, rather surprised at the sudden change of subject. ‘Very lovely —’

  ‘Yes, that’s what everybody thinks, except the people who live here.’ Feldon laughed mirthlessly. ‘Shall I tell you what it is? It’s hell! It’s hell! A festering sore masked in loveliness. A valley of doom. There’s more devilish work going on here than you’ll find in all the backstreets of Limehouse and Soho and Deptford, and I know them all. Here the very souls of men are tortured and sent to perdition.’ He laughed again harshly. ‘You think I’m exaggerating? Wait till after you’ve heard what I’ve got to say tonight. The Deneswood Valley Estate! The personification of all that’s lovely and peaceful and beautiful! A sink of iniquity, Mr. Street! A valley of the doomed!’

  He would say no more in spite of all the reporter’s persuasion, and shortly afterward Farringdon took his leave. An
d as he drove away down the private road, the peaceful beauty of the evening and the sylvan surroundings assumed a sinister aspect.

  It was queer, he told himself. But he had achieved something. Clifford Feldon did know the secret of Felix Dexon’s disappearance, and that secret was also closely connected with the beautiful estate he had just left bathed in the orange light of the setting sun.

  Chapter Six – Death Stalks the Valley

  Farringdon did not go back to London, although there would have been time. He put through a call to the Morning Herald offices and just caught Mr. Ebbs as he was leaving for home. The news editor listened interestedly to what he had to say and grunted his approval.

  ‘Carry on,’ he said tersely. ‘You seem to have struck something.’

  Farringdon filled in his time while he waited for the hour of his appointment with Feldon at a pleasant hotel near Deneswood Valley, where he was provided with an excellent dinner, and during the meal his mind was fully occupied.

  So far he had cause to congratulate himself on the progress he had made, and after he had had his talk with Feldon he expected that everything would be made clear. He frowned as he remembered the man’s outburst just before he had left. What had he meant by referring to Deneswood as a valley of doom? Was it in connection with the fate of Felix Dexon, his own unhappy participation in that affair, or something else of which Farringdon was unaware? The reporter fancied that it was this last. Feldon had suggested that his description applied to the other residents as well as himself, but this seemed, on the face of it, absurd. If they were unhappy and hated the place so, why did they stop there? It was a free country and people could live where they liked. There was certainly nothing either unhappy or suggestive of care about the fat Mr. Blessington. The only thing that worried him was the fact that somebody had been killed on his estate.

  Farringdon’s eyes narrowed. That was a funny business too, the murder of Lew Miller. It had never been discovered who had killed him, or why. Could it have any connection with Felix Dexon’s disappearance and Feldon? According to Mr. Blessington’s evidence at the inquest, Miller had been looking for somebody and swore he lived in Deneswood, a man called Sam Gates. It seemed impossible that Miller’s murder could have any bearing on Dexon’s disappearance, and yet there was a possibility that it might. It least it would be worthwhile looking into. Perhaps Feldon would know something about that too. At any rate it certainly rather bore out the wild statement that Feldon had made that there was some sinister influence at work amid the peace of that beautiful place.

  Well, whatever the secret of Deneswood was, he would know more about it after he had kept his appointment.

  He had booked a room for the night at the hotel, and shortly after eleven-thirty he left the lounge and strolled towards the private road leading to Deneswood Estate. It was no very great distance away and he reckoned that he would just get to the tee in time.

  The night was clear and the moon riding high. He paused at the beginning of the rural community, absorbing the delicate beauty of the scene. Somewhere away to his left a gramophone or wireless was playing the latest fox-trot, and the faint strains of the music mingled with the song of the nightingale from the tree-clad slopes of the hills. Here and there patches of oblong light shone out from the thick foliage, testifying to the fact that many of the residents were still wakeful. Evidently the colony did not keep country times.

  Farringdon crossed the green leisurely, a smooth carpet of dove-grey in the light of the moon. Once he thought he saw a figure moving in the shadow of the bordering bushes, but concluded after a long scrutiny that his imagination was playing tricks with him.

  It was curious, but as he walked across the central gardens he could feel, instead of the peacefulness which such a night should have inspired, a curious sense of unrest. He concluded that it was the subconscious effect of Feldon’s words, but he could not shake it off.

  He saw the streak of scarlet that marked the tee — or, to be more correct, the eighteenth hole, for the course doubled back on itself — and changed his direction.

  He arrived punctually at the place Feldon had chosen, for a distant clock struck twelve as he drew level with the sandbox. The world was a place of misty hues, and from here he could look down the valley and see where the light of the moon caught a great white patch on the side of a hill in the distance. He wondered what it was, and then it came to him. It marked the side of an old quarry or gravel pit.

  There was no sign of Feldon. From where he stood, Farringdon could just distinguish the dark opening of the drive that led up to his house, but there was no sign of the man himself.

  A quarter of an hour went by, and the reporter began to wonder whether, after all, Feldon had changed his mind. It would be annoying if he had. It would mean —

  The peaceful silence of the night was broken by a scream — a scream of terror that died abruptly.

  Farringdon swung round. The cry had come from the direction of Feldon’s house, and the next instant he was plunging across the grass towards the dark shadow of the drive. As he ran he heard the sound of the music stop abruptly, and coming to the gravelled walk he became aware of an excited murmur of voices near and far. The terrible scream had evidently been heard by the other residents.

  Halfway up Feldon’s drive he heard the sound of running steps and almost cannoned into a man who was hurrying towards him. Shooting out a hand, he gripped the newcomer by the arm.

  ‘Here, steady, not so fast!’ he cried. ‘Where are you going to?’

  The man gave a gasp of fear. ‘Who are you’ he grunted. ‘Here, let go! I’m going to get help.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Farringdon, without releasing his hold.

  ‘Mr. Feldon,’ whispered the man. ‘He’s dead! Shot!’

  ‘Shot?’ Farringdon’s jaw set. ‘Who are you? One of the servants?’

  ‘Yes,’ stammered the other. ‘I’m going to get help.’

  ‘You can take me up to the house first,’ said Farringdon grimly. ‘I’m a newspaper man.’

  The servant began a faint protest, but Farringdon, still keeping hold of his arm, dragged him along in the direction of the house. He had no intention of letting go until the man had proved that he was one of the servants.

  ‘What were you running for?’ he demanded. ‘Why didn’t you phone for help?’

  ‘The butler did try, sir,’ answered the frightened man, ‘but the telephone wouldn’t work.’

  ‘I see,’ muttered Farringdon

  They had reached the open door of the house and a thin man in dishevelled attire met them on the step. ‘Hello!’ You’ve been quick,’ he said, and then catching sight of Farringdon’s face he added sharply: ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name is Street,’ said the reporter. ‘I’m on the Morning Herald. What has happened to Mr. Feldon?’

  ‘He’s been killed — shot, I think,’ said the thin man in an altered voice. ‘Didn’t you call and see him this afternoon, sir?’

  The reporter nodded. ‘Yes, and I was to have seen him tonight,’ he answered shortly. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In his study,’ answered the other.

  ‘Then take me there at once.’

  The thin man, whom Farringdon placed as the butler, turned back to the hall and led the way to the long room. The door was open and Farringdon walked in. All the lights were on and at first sight the room appeared empty, and then he saw its owner.

  He lay at the other end of the room by the window, his face contorted into an expression of fear. He had been shot at close quarters, for there was a blackening of powder marks round the tiny hole that showed darkly against his white forehead. There was no need for a doctor’s report — one glance at that still figure told its own story.

  Chapter Seven – Felix Dexon

  For a minute Farringdon stood looking at that motionless form, then he turned to the butler. ‘Where are the other servants?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re all in bed, except Alice, t
he housemaid. She made the discovery. It was her scream that woke me.’

  So it was Alice who had screamed. The reporter had wondered who was responsible for that horrible cry. ‘How did she make the discovery?’ he asked.

  ‘She had toothache,’ explained the butler, ‘and came down to get some stuff for it which she had left in the kitchen. She had to pass this room; the door was open and the lights on, and she glanced in. You can see him from the door,’ he added, lowering his voice.

  ‘I see.’ Farringdon nodded. ‘Before the scream didn’t you hear anything?’

  The butler shook his head. He had heard nothing. Feldon had sent the servants to bed early. He had said that he would put the lights out and lock up. He often did this, so the butler had seen nothing unusual in the order.

  ‘Did he have any visitors this evening?’ asked Farringdon.

  The man hesitated. ‘I couldn’t say for certain,’ he replied. ‘I thought I heard the sound of voices once, just before I went up to my room, but I couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘Did you recognise the voices?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  The butler thought for a moment. ‘Must have been between half-past ten and eleven,’ he said.

  ‘Didn’t you hear any sound — like a shot?’

  The man shook his head again. ‘No — nothing. I’d just dropped off to sleep when I heard Alice scream. I slipped on a dressing gown and came down and — well, you’ve seen what I saw.’

  Farringdon nodded and looked quickly about the room. ‘The footman said you tried to telephone, but couldn’t. Is that right?’

  ‘Quite right,’ said the butler. ‘The instrument is in the hall and I tried to get through to the doctor, but I couldn’t get any reply from the exchange.’