Death Locked In

by Douglas G. Greene (ed)

  At dinner we were served by Spanish servants, and a repulsive-looking negro of the name of Samson stood behind Mrs. Scaiffe’s chair.

  She was in high spirits, drank freely of champagne, and openly alluded to the great discovery.

  “You must show us the chart, my friend,’’ she said.

  “No!” he answered, in an emphatic voice. He smiled as he spoke and showed his strong, white teeth.

  She bent towards him and whispered something. He glanced at Muriel, whose face was deadly white. Then he rose abruptly.

  “As regards anything else, command me,” he said, “but not the chart.”

  Mrs. Scaiffe did not press him further. The ladies went into the drawing-room, and by and by Digby and I found ourselves returning to London.

  During the journey I mentioned to him that Lancaster had wired to say that he would be at his office and prepared for a meeting on Friday. This was Monday night.

  “I am glad to hear that the thing will not be delayed much longer,” he answered. “I may as well confess that I am devoured by impatience.”

  “Your mind will soon be at rest,” I replied. “And now, one thing more, old man. I must talk frankly. I do not like Mrs. Scaiffe—I do not like Senor Merello. As you value all your future, keep that chart out of the hands of those people.”

  “Am I mad?” he questioned. “The chart is seen by no living soul until I place it in Lancaster’s hands. But all the same, Pleydell,” he added, “you are prejudiced, Mrs. Scaiffe is one of the best of women.”

  “Think her so, if you will,” I replied; “but, whatever you do, keep your knowledge of your Eldorado to yourself. Remember that on Friday the whole thing will be safe in Lancaster’s keeping.”

  He promised, and I left him.

  On Tuesday I saw nothing of Digby.

  On Wednesday evening, when I returned home late, I received the following letter:

  I am not mad. I have heavily bribed the kitchen maid, the only English woman in the whole house, to post this for me. I was forced to call on Mr. Digby and to engage myself to him at any cost. I am now strictly continued to my room under presence of illness. In reality I am quite well, but a close prisoner. Mr. Digby dined here again last night and, under the influence of a certain drug introduced into his wine, has given away the whole of his discovery except the exact locality.

  He is to take supper here late tomorrow night (Thursday) and to bring the chart. If he does, he will never leave The Rosary alive. All is prepared. I speak who know. Don’t betray me, but save him.

  The letter fell from my hands. What did it mean? Was Digby s life in danger, or had the girl who wrote to me really gone mad? The letter was without date, without any heading, and without signature. Nevertheless, as I picked it up and read it carefully over again, I was absolutely convinced beyond a shadow of doubt of its truth. Muriel Scaiffe was not mad. She was a victim, to how great an extent I did not dare to think. Another victim, one in even greater danger, was Oscar Digby. I must save him. I must do what the unhappy girl who was a prisoner in that awful house implored of me.

  It was late, nearly midnight, but I knew that I had not a moment to lose. I had a friend, a certain Dr. Garland, who had been police surgeon for the Westminster Division for several years. I went immediately to his house in Eaton Square. As I had expected, he was up, and without any preamble I told him the whole long story of the last few weeks.

  Finally, I showed him the letter. He heard me without once interrupting. He read the letter without comment. When he folded it up and returned it to me I saw that his keen, clean-shaven face was full of interest. He was silent for several minutes, then he said:

  “I am glad you came to me. This story of yours may mean a very big thing. We have four prima-facie points. One: Your friend has this enormously valuable secret about the place in Guiana or on its boundary: a secret which may be worth anything. Two: He is very intimate with Mrs. Scaiffe, her step-daughter, and her brother. The intimacy started in Brazil. Three: He is engaged to the step-daughter, who evidently is being used as a sort of tool, and is herself in a state of absolute terror, and, so far as one can make out, is not specially in love with Digby nor Digby with her. Four: Mrs. Scaiffe and her brother are determined, at any risk, to secure the chart which Digby is to hand to them tomorrow evening. The girl thinks this so important that she has practically risked her life to give you due warning. By the way, when did you say Lancaster would return? Has he made an appointment to see Digby and yourself?”

  “Yes: at eleven o’clock on Friday morning.”

  “Doubtless Mrs. Scaiffe and her brother know of this.”

  “Probably.” I answered. “As far as I can make out they have such power over Digby that he confides everything to them.”

  “Just so. They have power over him, and they are not scrupulous as to the means they use to force his confidence. If Digby goes to The Rosary tomorrow evening the interview with Lancaster will, in all probability, never take place.”

  “What do you mean?” I cried, in horror.

  “Why, this: Mrs. Scaiffe and Senor Merello are determined to learn Digby’s secret. It is necessary for their purpose that they should know the secret and also that they should be the sole possessors of it. You see why they want Digby to call on them? They must get his secret from before he sees Lancaster. The chances are that if he gives it up he will never leave the house alive.”

  “Then, what are we to do?” I asked, for Garland’s meaning stunned me and I felt incapable of thought or of any mode of action.

  “Leave this matter in my hands. I am going immediately to see Inspector Frost. I will communicate with you directly anything serious occurs.”

  The next morning I called upon Digby and found him breakfasting at his club. He looked worried, and, when I came in, his greeting was scarcely cordial.

  “What a solemn face, Pleydell!” he said. “Is anything wrong?” He motioned me to a seat near. I sank into it.

  “I want you to come out of town with me,” I said. “I can take a day off. Shall we both run down to Brighton? We can return in time for our interview with Lancaster tomorrow.”

  “It is impossible,” he answered. “I should like to come with you, but I have an engagement for tonight.”

  “Are you going to The Rosary?” I asked.

  “I am,” he replied, after a moment’s pause. “Why. What is the matter?” he added. “I suppose I may consider myself a free agent.” There was marked irritation in his tone.

  “I wish you would not go,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I do not trust the people.”

  “Folly, Pleydell. In the old days you used not to be so prejudiced.”

  “I had not the same cause. Digby, if ever people are trying to get you into their hands, they are those people. Have you not already imparted your secret to them?”

  “How do you know?” he exclaimed, springing up and turning crimson.

  “Well, can you deny it?”

  His face paled.

  “I don’t know that I want to,” he said. “Mrs. Scaiffe and Merello will join me in this matter. There is no reason why things should be kept dark from them.”

  ‘‘But is this fair or honorable to Lancaster? Remember, I have already written fully to him. Do, I beg of you, be careful.”

  “Lancaster cannot object to possible wealthy shareholders,” was Digby’s answer. “Anyhow,” he added, laughing uneasily, “I object to being interfered with. Pray understand that, old man, if we are to continue friends; and now by-bye for the present. We meet at eleven o’clock tomorrow at Lancaster’s.”

  His manner gave me no pretext for remaining longer with him, and I returned to my own work. About five o’clock on that same day a telegram was handed to me which ran as follows:

  Come here at once.—Garland

  I left the house, hailed a hansom, and in a quarter of an hour was shown into Garland’s study. He was not alone. A rather tall, grey-haired, grey-mustac
hed, middle-aged man was with him. This man was introduced as Inspector Frost.

  “Now, Pleydell,” said Garland, in his quick, incisive way, “listen to me carefully. The time is short. Inspector Frost and I have not ceased our inquiries since you called on me last night. I must tell you that we believe the affair to be of the most serious kind. Time is too pressing now to enter into all details, but the thing amounts to this. There is the gravest suspicion that Mrs. Scaiffe and her brother, Senor Merello, are employed by a notorious gang in Brazil to force Digby to disclose the exact position of the gold mine. We also know for certain that Mrs. Scaiffe is in constant and close communication with some very suspicious people both in London and in Brazil.”

  “Now, listen. The crisis is to be tonight. Digby is to take supper at The Rosary, and there to give himself absolutely away. He will take his chart with him: that is the scheme. Digby must not go—that is, if we can possibly prevent him. We expect you to do what you can under the circumstances, but as the case is so serious, and as it is more than probable that Digby will not be persuaded, Inspector Frost and myself and a number of men of his division will surround the house as soon as it becomes dark, and if Digby should insist on going in every protection is case of difficulty will be given him. The presence of the police will also insure the capture of Mrs. Scaiffe and her brother.”

  “You mean,” I said, “that you will, if necessary, search the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how can you do so without a warrant?”

  “We have thought of that,” said Garland, with a smile. “A magistrate living at Hampstead has been already communicated with. If necessary, one of our men will ride over to his house and procure the requisite instrument to enforce our entrance “

  “Very well,” I answered: “then I will go at once to Digby’s, but I may as well tell you plainly that I have very little hope of dissuading him.”

  I drove as fast as I could to my friend’s rooms, but was greeted with the information that he had already left and was not expected back until late that evening. This was an unlooked for blow.

  I went to his club—he was not there. I then returned to Dr. Garland.

  “I failed to find him,” I said. “What can be done? Is it possible that he has already gone to his fate?”

  “That is scarcely likely,” replied Garland, after a pause. “He was invited to supper at The Rosary, and according to your poor young friends letter the time named was late. There is nothing for it but to waylay him on the grounds before he goes in. You will come with us tonight, will you not, Pleydell?”

  “Certainly,” I answered.

  Garland and I dined together. At half-past nine we left Eaton Square and, punctually at ten o’clock, the hansom we had taken put us down at one of the roads on the north side of the Heath. The large house, which I knew so well loomed black in the moonlight.

  The night was cold and fresh. The moon was in its second quarter and was shining brightly. Garland and I passed down the dimly-lit lane beside the wall. A tall, dark figure loomed from the darkness and, as it came forward, I saw that it was Inspector Frost.

  “Mr. Digby has not arrived yet,” he said. “Perhaps, sir,” he added, looking at me, “you can even now dissuade him, for it is a bad business. All my men are ready, “ he continued, “and at a signal the house will be surrounded; but we must have one last try to prevent his entering it. Come this way, please sir,” he added, beckoning to me to follow him.

  We passed out into the road.

  “I am absolutely bewildered, inspector, “ I said to him. “Do you mean to say there is really great danger?”

  “The worst I ever knew,” was his answer. “You cannot stop a man entering a house if he wishes to; but I can tell you, Mr. Pleydell, I do not believe his life is worth that if he goes in.” And the inspector snapped his fingers.

  He had scarcely ceased speaking when the jingling of the bells of a hansom sounded behind us. The cab drew up at the gates and Oscar Digby alighted close to us.

  Inspector Frost touched him on the shoulder.

  He swung round and recognized me.

  “Halloa! Pleydell,” he said, in no very cordial accents, “What in the name of Heaven are you doing here? What does this mean? Who is this man?”

  “I am a police-officer, Mr. Digby, and I want to speak to you. Mr. Pleydell has asked you not to go into that house. You are, of course, free to do as you like, but I must tell you that you are running into great danger. Be advised by me and go away.”

  For answer Digby thrust his hand into his breast pocket. He pulled out a note which he gave me.

  “Read that, Pleydell,” he said; “and receive my answer.” I tore the letter from its envelope and read in the moonlight:

  Come to me. I am in danger and suffering. Do not fail

  me.—Muriel.

  “A hoax! A forgery!” I could not help crying. “For God’s sake, Digby, don’t be mad.”

  “Mad or sane, I go into that house, “ he said. His bright blue eyes flashed with passion and his breath came quickly.

  “Hands off, sir. Don’t keep me.”

  He swung himself away from me.

  “One word,” called the inspector after him. “How long do you expect to remain?”

  “Perhaps an hour. I shall be home by midnight.”

  “And now, sir, please listen. You can be assured, in case of any trouble, that we are here, and I may further tell you that if you are not out of the house by one o’clock, we shall enter with a search warrant.”

  Digby stood still for a moment then he turned to me.

  “I cannot but resent your interference, but I believe you mean well. Goodbye!” He wrung my hand and walked quickly up the drive.

  We watched him ring the bell. The door was opened at once by the negro servant. Digby entered. The door closed silently. Inspector Frost gave a low whistle.

  “I would not be that man for a good deal,” he said.

  Garland came up to us both.

  “Is the house entirely surrounded. Frost?” I heard him whisper. Frost smiled, and I saw his white teeth gleam in the darkness. He waved his hand.

  “There is not a space of six feet between man and man,” I heard him say; “and now we have nothing to do but to wait and hope for at least an hour and a half. If in an hour’s time Mr. Digby does not reappear I shall send a man for the warrant. At one o’clock we enter the house.”

  Garland and I stood beneath a large fir tree in a dense shade and within the enclosed garden. The minutes seemed to crawl. Our conversation was limited to low whispers at long intervals.

  Eleven o’clock chimed on the church clock nearby; then half-past sounded on the night air. My ears were strained to catch the expected click on the front door-latch, but it did not come. The house remained wrapped in silence. Once Garland whispered:

  “Hark!” We listened closely. It certainly seemed to me that a dull, muffled sound, as of pounding or hammering, was just audible; but whether it came from the house or not it was impossible to tell.

  At a quarter to twelve the one remaining lighted window on the first floor became suddenly dark. Still there was no sign of Digby. Midnight chimed.

  Frost said a word to Garland and disappeared, treading softly. He was absent for more than half an hour. When he returned I heard him say:—

  “I have got it, “ and he touched his pocket with his hand as he spoke.

  The remaining moments went by in intense anxiety, and, just as the deep boom of one o’clock was heard the inspector laid his hand on my shoulder.

  “Come along quietly,” he whispered.

  Some sign, conveyed by a low whistle, passed from him to his men, and I heard the bushes rustle around us.

  The next moment we had ascended the steps, and we could hear the deep whirr of the front door bell as Frost pressed the button.

  In less time than we had expected we heard the bolts shot back. The door was opened on a chain and a black face appeared at the
slit.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” said a voice.

  “I have called for Mr. Digby,” said Frost. “Go and tell him that his friend, Mr. Pleydell, and also Doctor Garland want to see him immediately.”

  A look of blank surprise came over the negro’s face. “But no one of the name of Digby lives here, “ he said.

  “Mrs. Scaiffe lives here,” replied the inspector, “and also a Spanish gentleman of the name of Senor Merello. Tell them that I wish to see them immediately, and that I am a police-officer.”

  A short conversation was evidently taking place within. The next moment the door was flung open, electric lights sprang into being, and my eyes fell upon Mrs. Scaiffe.

  She was dressed with her usual magnificence. She came forward with a stately calm and stood silently before us. Her large black eyes were gleaming.

  “Well, Mr. Pleydell,” she said, speaking in an easy voice, “what is the reason of this midnight disturbance? I am always glad to welcome you to my house, but is not the hour a little late?”

  Her words were interrupted by Inspector Frost, who held up his hand.

  “Your attitude, madam,” he said, “is hopeless. We have all come here with a definite object. Mr. Oscar Digby entered this house at a quarter past ten tonight. From that moment the house has been closely surrounded. He is therefore still here.”

  “Where is your authority for this unwarrantable intrusion?” she said. Her manner changed, her face grew hard as iron. Her whole attitude was one of insolence and defiance.

  The inspector immediately produced his warrant.

  She glanced over it and uttered a shrill laugh.

  “Mr. Digby is not in the house,” she said.

  She had scarcely spoken before an adjoining door was opened, and Senor Merello, looking gaunt and very white about the face, approached. She looked up at him and smiled, then she said, carelessly:—

  “Gentlemen, this is my brother, Senor Merello.”

  The Senor bowed slightly, but did not speak.

  “Once more,” said Frost, “where is Mr. Digby?”

  “I repeat once more,” said Mrs. Scaiffe, “that Mr. Digby is not in this house.”