The Hand of Fear

by Gerald Verner

  ‘You keep still,’ grunted a voice from behind him. ‘Don’t move or it will be the worse for you.’

  ‘That’s right, Oliver, keep him quiet,’ said Blessington, getting heavily to his feet. ‘You fool!’ he said again, thrusting his big face close to Farringdon. ‘There’s a bell push let into the floor under my desk, concealed by the carpet. It was put there in case of just such an emergency as this. When that’s rung Oliver knows that it’s urgent. It is the first time I’ve had occasion to use it though. That white-livered lot in the valley wouldn’t dare to try anything, except Earnshaw, and he’s suffered for his temerity.’

  It was not until later that Farringdon understood the meaning of his words. ‘What do you think you can do?’ he said calmly. ‘There’s a police officer outside the door of this house, and a word from him will bring others to his assistance. You can’t get away. The best thing you can do, Blessington, is to give in. Tell this crook butler of yours to take that damn thing away from my neck, and be sensible.’

  ‘Can’t get away, can’t I?’ snarled the other furiously. ‘Perhaps I can’t, but I can try, and whatever I do can’t make any difference. I’ll be hanged anyway — if I’m caught.’ He pulled an automatic from the pocket of his dressing gown and covered Street. ‘Go down to the door!’ he snapped to the man Oliver, ‘and ask that detective to come up. Wait until he’s inside the hall and then get him. Don’t shoot — cosh him. We don’t want ’em to hear any sound outside if we can help it.’

  The cold pressure at the back of the reporter’s neck was removed. ‘All right,’ muttered Oliver, and he departed noiselessly, his feet making no sound on the thick carpet.

  ‘Where’s that other fellow — the one who came prowling round the quarry? What’s his name — Holt?’ asked Blessington when they were alone.

  ‘He’s at the inn,’ answered the reporter. ‘You’re a fool, Blessington, to think you can get away. Blagdon and Hallick will be here at any moment.’

  The stout man chuckled. ‘The more the merrier,’ he said. ‘Can’t get away, eh? We’ll see about that, Mr. Cocksure Street. Once I’ve silenced you and that fool detective I don’t think anybody’s going to stop me.’

  Farringdon’s lips curled at the corners. ‘You’re like all the rest,’ he sneered. ‘Full of your own importance. Vanity’s your trouble, Blessington, and over ninety per cent of the criminals I’ve come up against have suffered from the same disease.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ snarled the other, but his fat face flushed at the taunting words. ‘I’m in a tight corner, I’ll admit, but I think I can see a way out.’

  ‘There’s nothing like being optimistic,’ said the reporter, and although he spoke coolly his brain was working rapidly to find a way of turning the tables. ‘I suppose you’ve forgotten that the place is surrounded by detectives?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten nothing,’ answered Blessington. ‘In spite of that I think I shall succeed in getting away. Well?’ He added the last word in a changed tone, but without shifting his eyes from Farringdon.

  ‘I got him all right.’ Oliver had evidently returned. ‘He’s lying all nice and comfy in the hall.’

  ‘Good!’ Blessington nodded his satisfaction. ‘Now you’ — he jerked his pistol at the reporter — ‘get up and walk.’

  ‘Why don’t you give up this nonsense,’ said Farringdon, without moving. ‘You’re only putting off the evil day. You’re bound to be caught in the end. Why don’t you give in and go quietly?’

  ‘I see. Just say, ‘It’s a fair cop,’ like a little sneak-thief caught ‘dipping’ a girl’s handbag,’ sneered the fat man. ‘I’m not like that, Street. I’ve played for big stakes all my life, and I’ll go on playing for ’em until —’

  ‘Until they drop you at the end of a rope,’ cut in Farringdon quickly. ‘Doesn’t seem worth all the trouble, does it, Blessington?’

  ‘I’m not at the end of a rope yet,’ breathed Blessington. ‘Not even in the death-house. I’m not going to waste any more time listening to your talk. Go on, get up and walk.’

  Farringdon shrugged and rose slowly. He kept his eyes fixed on the pistol in the other’s hand, and if there had been the slightest possible chance he would have risked a dash for it, but Blessington kept it steadily pointed at him, and his hand was as steady as a rock. Whatever he might be, the reporter felt a certain grudging admiration for his nerve. He was a fighter, a man who refused to admit that he was beaten.

  ‘Come on, get a move on,’ he ordered, and Farringdon was forced out into the corridor and down the stairs. ‘And hurry yourself,’ went on the fat man. ‘You — Oliver. Go and fetch that ‘busy’ and bring him down to the cellar.’

  Oliver nodded and hurried on ahead. As they reached the dimly lighted hall Farringdon saw him stoop, pick up the unconscious figure of the detective and sling it over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Blessington directed the reporter down a passage at the far end of the hall, and waited while Oliver unlocked a heavy door on the right. A rush of cold, damp-smelling air came up from the open doorway to greet Farringdon’s nostrils.

  ‘There’s a flight of steps beyond,’ said Blessington. ‘Down you go.’

  ‘Where does this lead to?’ asked Farringdon as he crossed the dark threshold.

  ‘You’ll see!’ was the retort.

  The fat man pressed a switch beside the doorway and a yellow gleam of light split the darkness in front. The reporter saw that the steps led down to a low-roofed cellar, the walls, floor and ceiling of which were of stone.

  ‘This is where I first thought of keeping Dexon,’ remarked Blessington. ‘Soundproof — there’s an inner cellar with a steel door. You’ll see it in a moment.’

  Farringdon saw it in less than a moment. It was about halfway along the main cellar wall and fitted into a niche. Oliver, at a word from Blessington, laid down the unconscious form of the plainclothes man and took the revolver from his master’s hand.

  ‘Keep him covered,’ said the fat man with a chuckle. He felt in his pocket, took from it a bunch of keys, and fitted one to the lock of the steel door. A twist of the wrist and a pull, and the heavy, safe-like door swung open.

  ‘In with the ‘busy’,’ growled Blessington, taking back the pistol from Oliver’s hand, and the man picked up the detective and swung him through the aperture.

  Farringdon heard a faint, startled cry. It was a girl’s voice, and then he received a shattering blow in the back that sent him staggering into the cell-like room, and before he could recover his balance the steel door clanged shut behind him.

  ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ asked a frightened voice, and the reporter uttered an exclamation of astonishment, for it was the voice of Lesley Thane!

  Chapter Twenty-Nine – The End of Sam Gates

  Ambrose Blessington, or Sam Gates, to give him his real name, gave a gasp of relief and mopped his damp forehead with a silk handkerchief. The strain of the last quarter of an hour had been terrific. ‘Thank God that’s over!’ he breathed. ‘Come on, we’ve still a lot to do.’

  ‘You’re right, as far as it goes,’ grunted Oliver, ‘but I don’t see what you’re going to do now. It’s alive with detectives outside. ’ow d’you think you’re going to dodge em?’

  ‘Quite easily, I hope,’ replied the fat man, leading the way back to the hall. ‘Lock that door to the cellar and then go and stand by the front door and don’t let anyone in. If any of those cursed ‘busies’ call, get rid of them. Cosh ’em if necessary, but don’t let ’em in. Understand?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ growled Oliver. ‘But I can’t deal with the ’ole blooming police force.’

  ‘You’re not asked to,’ snarled Blessington. ‘All I want is to gain a few minutes’ time.’

  He hurried upstairs, taking the broad treads two at a time. Going into his bedroom, he pulled the heavy curtains across the window and switched on the light. Removing his dressing gown, he went over to the wardrobe and collected a dark blue lounge suit. Wit
h remarkable celerity he stripped and redressed in the other suit. Over this he put his dressing gown and thrust a cap into one of the pockets. Then, switching out the light, he went into his study. Crossing to the large safe that stood against the wall, he twisted the combination until it spelt the word ‘black’ and pulled open the door. He ignored the orderly heaps of letters and documents, and opening a steel drawer removed a large wad of high-denomination notes which he thrust into his pocket. A couple of fresh clips of cartridges for his pistol, taken from his desk, completed his preparations. He poured himself out a stiff whisky and drank it neat, then leaving the lights burning made his way down to the hall.

  Oliver was still waiting on guard by the front door. ‘Now follow me,’ whispered Blessington.

  ‘What you going to do?’ demanded the butler. ‘Going by the passage?’

  ‘No, you fool!’ snapped the fat man. ‘The other end of that comes out by the quarry, and we’d be almost certain to be seen.’

  ‘Listen!’ gasped the butler, grasping his master by the arm.

  Blessington listened. The sound of a car coming to a halt outside in the drive reached his ears. A curse left his lips and he stiffened.

  ‘That’s the police,’ whispered Oliver, his face white with fear.

  ‘Stay there,’ hissed the fat man, and slipping into the dining room he peered cautiously through the window.

  A few yards away the police car had come to a halt. He saw Blagdon get out, leaving the constable who had been driving in the car. The inspector moved towards the porch, and Blessington left his point of vantage and returned to the hall. An idea had occurred to him. A daring scheme, but possessing many advantages. ‘It’s Blagdon,’ he whispered.

  ‘Hell!’ said his servant, and then in alarm as his master laid a hand on the catch. ‘What are you going to do? Are you mad?’

  ‘No, you fool! Be quiet!’ hissed the fat man, opening the door. ‘Come in, Inspector,’ he greeted Blagdon genially as he mounted the steps. ‘Come in. Mr. Street is here and he’s made an important discovery. He wants to see you.’

  The unsuspecting Blagdon crossed the threshold. ‘I hear you’ve been having trouble here, Mr. Blessington,’ he said as the stout man closed the door.

  ‘I’m afraid we have,’ said Blessington softly, and the butt of his revolver came down with all its force on the back of the inspector’s neck. ‘Catch him!’ he snarled as the burly figure crumpled, and Oliver sprang forward and took the weight of the unconscious police official. ‘Get some rope and tie him up,’ said Blessington, removing his dressing gown, ‘and then come back here. Be quick.’

  Oliver hastened to obey. He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and presently returned with a length of clothes-line. With this he hastily bound Blagdon’s wrists and ankles.

  ‘Pull him into the dining room,’ ordered Blessington, when he had finished, and when this had been done he once more opened the front door. ‘The inspector wants you, officer,’ he said mildly to the constable seated at the wheel of the police car. ‘Will you come in?’

  The man got down, crossed the intervening strip of gravel and ascended the steps.

  ‘He’s in the dining room,’ said Mr. Blessington, and as the policeman passed him his clenched fist shot out and caught him on the point of the jaw. With a smothered cry the constable staggered, and in that second Blessington acted. With a lightning spring he was down the steps and beside the police car. Another second and he had sprung up behind the steering wheel and was thrusting frantically at the self-starter pedal. The engine jarred into life just as Oliver, dazed with the rapidity with which it had all happened, came flying up.

  ‘Here, wait for me, Guv’nor!’ he shouted, springing onto the running-board as the car began to move.

  Blessington swept round a powerful arm and the butler went sprawling onto the gravel of the drive. ‘You can go to the devil!’ he snapped, pressing hard on the accelerator.

  Like a living thing the car leaped forward and shot down the drive with the rapidity of a bullet. Blessington heard a shout behind him and the crack of an automatic as he was seen by one of the plainclothes men, but the bullet went wide. He took the turning out of the private road almost on two wheels, and skidded into the main thoroughfare, wrenching the wheel hard over to swing the radiator towards the open country.

  It was light now, and a pale sun was flooding the road ahead — a long, deserted stretch that passed the lip of the quarry. The car slowed appreciably as it breasted the slope, but Blessington cared little for that. He had got away! It was cursed ill luck that he had had to make a break for it just when success was in his grasp. That fatal mistake of not changing his boots after he had come back from the quarry. But for that, Farringdon Street would never have become suspicious. Well, anyway, he’d got away.

  He reached the top of the rise and felt the car bound forward with redoubled speed as it came onto the flat, and then ahead he saw a lorry approaching. At the same instant a man came running unevenly across the tract of common land. It was Hallick, and he stared in astonishment as he caught sight of the speeding police car with Blessington at the wheel.

  Almost coincident with the sight, his mind supplied the reason. He was close to the approaching lorry, and he shouted to the driver. ‘Turn your lorry across the road!’ he cried. ‘I’m a police officer. Block the road and stop that car!’

  For an instant the lorry driver hesitated, and then the authority in the voice took effect. He slowed, twisted the wheel, and the huge, lumbering machine swerved and stopped, completely blocking the narrow thoroughfare. Blessington saw the manoeuvre, cursed, wrenched at the wheel of the car, and swung off the road onto the uneven common land, bumping and jolting as he kept his foot hard down on the accelerator. He heard a report like a pistol shot and the wheel twisted loosely under his hand. The car zigzagged spasmodically, its steering out of control. He heard a voice scream frantically. ‘Look out, man! The quarry!’

  He recognised his danger, and tried desperately to pull the car up. But he was too late! The radiator dropped at an appalling angle. For a second or two the machine hovered uncertainly on the lip of the pit, and then went crashing to the bottom, turning over and over as it fell . . .

  When Hallick, some minutes later, succeeded in scrambling down by way of the landslide and made his way to the wreck of the machine, Blessington was stone dead. He was lying half under the heavy car, a horrible, sprawling shape with a thin trickle of blood running sluggishly from the corner of his open mouth.

  Chapter Thirty – The Motto of America

  A taxi drew up outside the house of the ex-policeman Williams in Bloomsbury, and Farringdon Street alighted, followed by Inspector Hallick.

  ‘Wait,’ said the reporter to the driver, and ascending the steps he rang the bell.

  Mrs. Williams answered the door and smiled as she recognised the visitor. ‘You want to see Miss Thane, sir?’ she asked, and the reporter nodded. She disappeared up the stairs, after ushering them into the hall, and presently the girl came down.

  ‘How are you, Mr. Street?’ she greeted him. ‘You wish to see me?’

  Before the reporter could reply, Hallick stepped forward. I wish to see you,’ he said sternly. ‘The game’s up, Mrs. Canning. You’d better come quietly.’

  ‘I — I don’t know what you mean,’ she gasped. ‘My name is Thane —’

  ‘Since when?’ broke in Hallick roughly. ‘It’s no good. Blessington’s accomplice, Oliver, has squealed, and we know all about you. There’s no need to make a fuss if you come quietly.’

  The trapped woman looked from one to the other, oblivious of the horrified stare of Mrs. Williams.

  ‘All right, I’ll come,’ she whispered softly, and taking her arm Hallick led her to the waiting cab.

  The deception had been discovered immediately when Farringdon had found the real Lesley Thane, a prisoner in the cellar in which Blessington had thrust him on the morning of his attempted getaway. She had been the prisone
r in the quarry whom Holt had seen, and had never returned to Bloomsbury at all. The story the false Lesley Thane had put up about her escape from the cottage near Godalming had been a tissue of lies, invented and drilled into her by Blessington himself. Her description of the thin man had existed only in Blessington’s imagination and had been introduced to lead the police on a false trail. The cottage owned by the indignant Mr. Thorpe had been carefully prepared for the arrival of the police and the ambush laid in the hope that Hallick would fall into the trap, which he had almost done.

  It had been one of the most ingenious schemes planned by the fertile brain of Sam Gates, and might very easily have been successful. Few people in England knew Lesley Thane sufficiently to challenge the imposture, and with the girl a prisoner, any letters or documents could have been written or signed by her and passed on to her double. It was very unlikely that any suspicion would have been aroused, particularly as the supposed injury to her hand would have prevented her signing anything on the spot. She could always have made the excuse that she wished to consider any documents before attaching her signature, and taken them away to be signed by the real Lesley Thane. If the scheme had not been exploded, Felix Dexon’s fortune would have undoubtedly continued to pour into the coffers of the ingenious Sam Gates.

  The use of the quarry in which to imprison Lesley Thane after her abduction from the house in Bloomsbury had been another of his clever schemes. He had concluded, and rightly, that the place having once been searched by the police after Felix Dexon had succeeded in making his escape, would be the safest hiding place. No one would imagine for an instant that the same place would be used again for the same purpose.

  ‘That man was one of the cleverest criminals I’ve ever come up against,’ was Hallick’s comment when the tearful Mrs. Canning had been lodged safely in Cannon Row. ‘And we’ve only discovered a part of his cleverness. The rest has still to come out.’