by Sapper
“Damn the woman,” said Drummond angrily. Then he began to laugh. “Though, ’pon my soul,” he went on, “if it wasn’t for Phyllis, I think I should agree with her.”
“Time enough for that, old boy, when we’re through,” said Jerningham. “Hasn’t it struck you that at the moment we’re in a rather bad strategical position? It’s a sitting shot either from the ceiling or through that opening.”
“You’ve said a mouthful, Ted,” agreed Drummond. “Back into the passage, and we’ll have a council of war.”
The moon had risen, and an eerie half-light was filtering through the dirty windows, making the place seem, if possible, more ghostly than before.
“Now then,” said Drummond, “let’s get down to the meat juice. I should think that what our one and only Irma says is right, and that the poor devil dead in there has been responsible for all the stories about this place. Probably used that phosphorous trick to frighten people. Anyway, he’s out.”
“Next man in is the bloke with the hands who let drive with his bundook,” said Darrell thoughtfully.
“And any other little pals of his who may be lying about,” went on Drummond.
“But the thing to decide is where is the next clue?”
“The betting is a pony to a dried pea that it’s down that secret passage,” said Jerningham.
“Then down the passage we go, old son. But not all of us. If this was an ordinary house I wouldn’t mind. But that booby-trap in there was specially prepared, and there are probably others. The question is how many of us go. I think three are enough. That leaves three to guard this end. You five do fingers out for it: two of you to come.”
“Let’s all come in,” said Sinclair. “You too, Hugh.”
“No,” said Drummond decisively. “I’m going, anyway. Get a move on.”
“What are fingers out?” I asked mildly.
“Laddie,” said Drummond, “you may be a whale at conundrums, and I take off my hat to you over this evening’s show, but your education is a bit deficient. At the word go, extend as many fingers as you like in front of you. One hand only: thumbs don’t count. Go.”
I extended two: a complicated mathematical proceeding took place, and the winner appeared to be Sinclair.
“Once again,” said Drummond. “Only the four of you. Go.”
This time I extended three, and hoped for the best.
“Thirteen in all, and we start with Dixon.”
“Splendid,” I murmured: I didn’t mind who he started with. The passage, in spite of the dust, was comfortable: and, as far as I could see, the ceiling was ordinary lath and plaster.
“Come on then,” said Drummond. “I’ll go first, then Dixon, then Toby.”
I opened my eyes abruptly: I suppose I’m not very clever at that game. I appeared to have won, anyway, which was frightfully jolly and all that.
“Just guard this end, you three,” said Drummond. “And you’d better give us a couple of hours at least.”
He stepped back into the room, and flashed his torch up at the hole in the ceiling. No sign of anyone, and he led the way across the floor to the opening in the wall.
“Don’t forget,” he whispered urgently, “that anything may happen.”
“I won’t,” I assured him, and wondered if a ton of masonry on one’s head was a comparatively painless death.
The passage led downwards, and the walls and ceiling gradually grew damper and damper, until large drops of water splashed on my head at each step I took forward. Drummond was in front with his torch, and progress was slow, as he tested every foothold he took before advancing. At length he paused, and waited for us to come up with him.
“I believe we’re under the mere,” he announced.
“Hooray!” I cried enthusiastically. “I’ve always wanted to drown.”
And suddenly he began to shake with laughter.
“You priceless bird,” he remarked. “Look here – you go back – you’ve done your fair share for tonight – and Toby and I will go on.”
“Be blowed for a yarn,” I said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Once more we crept forward, and at length the passage started to rise again. It seemed to be bending right-handed the whole time, and was getting drier and drier. Suddenly Drummond paused; we had come to a fork. To the right a flight of stone steps led upwards: to the left it continued on the level.
“Shall we try the steps first,” whispered Drummond, and the next instant he switched off his torch. For quite distinctly and from close to had come the sound of a woman’s voice.
“It can’t be possible that we’ve found her,” he breathed.
“What – your wife?” I muttered.
“No – the other,” he answered. “Supposing she didn’t expect us to track her so quickly, and as a result we’ve caught her up.”
Once again came the voice, and this time a man spoke too.
“It’s up the steps,” said Drummond. “Toby – you wait here: we may be putting our heads straight into it. If anything happens, sprint back to the others and tell them. Dixon – you come half-way up as far as the bend.”
I crept up behind him, feeling with my fingers on the walls. And suddenly I found Drummond’s hand on my arm.
“Stay there,” he whispered. “I’m going on alone.”
Not two yards in front of us a beam of light shone out from under a closed door.
I waited tensely, crouched against the wall: could it be possible that we had run this woman to earth – that she was on the other side of the door? And, if so, how many men were likely to be with her? True, we had only heard one voice, but that meant nothing.
With a crash Drummond flung open the door and stepped into the room. A man and a woman were sitting at a table, on which the remains of a meal were lying. Two candles guttered in the sudden draught, and with a cry of fear the woman rose to her feet.
“Keep your hands on the table – both of you,” snapped Drummond.
“Who are you?” said the man in a surly voice, his eyes fixed on the revolver. “And what d’you want?”
“A little conversation, my friend,” said Drummond. “In the first place – who are you? And who is the lady?”
He flashed his torch on her face, and stared at her intently. She was a haggard, unkempt woman. Her face was lined and wrinkled: her hair streaked with grey. And she looked most desperately ill.
“Never you mind who we are,” said the man angrily. “It ain’t no blasted business of yours, is it? What are you doing in this house, anyway?”
“I admit,” answered Drummond pleasantly, “that under normal circumstances you would have a certain amount of justification for your question. But you can hardly call this house normal, can you?”
“Are you the police, mister?” said the woman, speaking for the first time.
“I am not,” said Drummond. “I’ve got nothing to do with them.”
“Well, what do you want?” said the man again. “Are you one of the bunch who have been fooling round this house for the last few weeks?”
“We get warm,” remarked Drummond. “No – I am not one of the bunch. At the same time, though not of them – I am after them, if you get me. But for them I should not be here. Am I to take it, then, that you disown them also.”
The man cursed foully.
“Disown them,” he snarled. “For two pins I’d have murdered the lot.”
“Then it was not you who rigged up that pleasant little booby-trap?”
“What booby-trap? Look here, mister, I’m getting fair sick of this. For God’s sake clear out.”
The woman put a restraining hand on his arm, and whispered something in his ear. She seemed to be trying to pacify him, and after a time he shrugged his shoulders and stood up.
“Sorry, sir, if I lost my temper. But if you ain’t the police, and you ain’t one of that bunch, then what do you want?”
“One moment,” said Drummond. “Dixon,” he called over his shoulder.
/> “Look here,” he whispered as I joined him, “would you recognise the hands of the man who dragged that thing away from you?”
“I certainly should,” I answered. “And it’s not this bloke.”
He nodded. “Good. That’s one thing settled, anyway. Now,” he resumed, “I’ll tell you what we want. Hidden somewhere in this charming country mansion is a piece of paper or a letter or a message of some sort which I am looking for. Do you know where it is?”
The man looked at the woman, and she looked at him.
“I reckon I do,” he said. “And it’s in a place you’d never find if you looked for ten years.”
Drummond’s eyes never left his face.
“How do you know where it is?” he said quietly.
“Because I saw one of them people put it there,” answered the man.
“Will you show me where it is?” continued Drummond.
Once again the woman bent and whispered to him.
“All right,” he said. “Look here, sir, I’ll show you where it is, if you’ll give me your word that you won’t tell a living soul you’ve seen us here.”
And suddenly the truth dawned on me.
“I believe,” I whispered to Drummond, “that this is the man who murdered the farmer ten years ago. They’ve been hiding here ever since.”
“Are you the man who murdered Farmer Jesson?” shot out Drummond abruptly.
The women gave a little scream, and clutched his shoulders.
“Never you mind who I am,” he said angrily. “You’ve forced your way in here, and I’ve got to trust you. But unless you give me your word to say nothing, you can damned well look for that envelope yourself.”
“I give you my word,” said Drummond quietly.
“What about your friend?”
“I speak for all of us,” said Drummond. “Now lead on. But you’d better understand one thing, my friend. Any monkey tricks, and you’ll be for it good and strong.”
The man looked straight at him.
“Why should there be any monkey tricks?” he remarked quietly. “All I want is to see the last of you as soon as possible. Follow me.”
He took a lantern off a nail in the wall and lit the candle inside. Then he led the way down the stairs.
“Who’s this?” He stopped suspiciously as the light showed up Toby Sinclair still waiting in the passage.
“A friend of mine,” said Drummond. “My promise covers him.”
“There’s someone else about here, Hugh,” said Toby in a low voice. “While you’ve been up there I’ve seen a gleam of light along the passage to the left, and I’m almost certain I heard movement.”
Drummond turned to the man.
“Do you hear that?” he said curtly. “Who is it?”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“Ask me another. This place has been like a rabbit warren lately.”
“Which way do we go?”
“Along there,” he pointed, “where your friend says he saw the light. Don’t you want to go? It doesn’t matter to me.”
He stood there swinging his lantern. By its light I could see Drummond staring at him intently: was it or was it not a trap? The man’s face was expressionless: he seemed completely indifferent as to whether we went or whether we didn’t. And at last Drummond made up his mind.
“Lead on,” he ordered. “But don’t forget I’m just behind you, and there will be no soft music to herald the hitting.”
Certainly there was no further gleam of light from in front, and the feeble flicker of the candle only seemed to intensify the surrounding darkness. The passage itself was opening out a little, and the roof was higher, so that walking was easy. And we must have gone about thirty yards when we came to a heavy wooden door. It was open, and our guide passed through without any hesitation.
“The note is in this room,” he said, holding the lantern above his head. By its light we could see it was of a similar type to the one we had just left. There was a table and a couple of chairs, and the whole place smelt of disuse, and reeked of damp. Water dripped from the ceiling and the walls, and it struck me that wherever we had been before, we were now most certainly under the mere.
“Well, get it,” snapped Drummond. “This place stinks worse than a seaside boarding-house.”
“It isn’t quite so easy to get it,” said the man, and even as he spoke, I knew we were trapped. A sudden look in his eyes; a scowl that was half a sneer – and then darkness. He had blown out the candle.
“Hell!” roared Drummond, and from the door the man laughed.
“You poor boobs,” came his mocking voice. “You don’t know enough to come in out of the wet.”
Well – perhaps that remark was worth it to him: perhaps it was not. It just gave Drummond time to switch on his torch. By its light we saw the door closing, and the fingers of the man’s hand round it. And the next instant a shot rang out. For quickness of shooting combined with accuracy I would never have believed it possible: Drummond had plugged him through the fingers. A torrent of blasphemy came from the other side of the door as we sprang towards it: but we were just too late. The bolt clanged home as we got there: we were shut in. And from the other side of the door the blasphemy continued.
At last it ceased, and Drummond bent and picked something off the floor.
“I have here,” he said, “the top joint of one of your fingers. The next time I see you, my friend, you shall have it served up as a savoury.”
We listened to the retreating footsteps, and he gave a short laugh.
“On balance I think we win,” he remarked. “Peter and Co. are bound to find us, and until they do we can think out a few choice methods of cooking fingers.”
He lit a cigarette thoughtfully, and then he laughed. “Damn the fellow! And that fish-faced woman was in it, too, I suppose. They certainly fooled us all right.”
He flashed his torch round the room: there was no trace of a window. But of one thing there was more than a trace. It stared us straight in the face – a sheet of notepaper pinned in the centre of the wall opposite the door. We crowded round it, and in silence we read the message written in the handwriting we were getting to know so well.
“Will you walk into my parlour said the spider to the fly? My dear friend, I grieve for you. This is not the old form at all. But then I always thought, little one, that your resemblance to a bull in a china shop was just a little too pronounced. And this time you’ve done it. Honestly I never thought the chase would end quite yet. In some ways I’m sorry: I had one or two beauties left for you. In fact the next clue is in tomorrow’s Times, which I now fear you will never see.
“How many of you are there in here, I wonder? That will be reported to me naturally in due course, but my woman’s curiosity prompts me to put down the question now. Because I have taken steps to cover all tracks, and I fear your bodies will never be recovered.
“Goodbye, mon ami. What I shall do with Phyllis remains to be seen. Play with her a little longer, anyway, I think.”
We stared at one another speechlessly; what on earth did the woman mean? – “Bodies never recovered”.
“That’s where she’s made her blooming error,” grunted Drummond.
But his voice didn’t carry much conviction.
“Let’s have a look at that door,” he went on. “There must be some way out.”
But there wasn’t; the door was as solid as the wall. And it was while we were examining the bolt that a faint hissing noise became audible. Drummond straightened up and stood listening.
“What the deuce is that?” he muttered. “And where does it come from?”
Once again his torch flashed round the room. The noise was increasing till it was almost a shrill whistle, and we located it at once. It came from a small circular metal pipe that stuck out about three inches from the wall close by the door. I put my finger over it: the pressure was too great to keep it there. Some gas was being pumped into the room, and the same thought struck us
all. There was no ventilation.
“She would seem,” said Drummond calmly, “to have won. Unless Peter arrives in time. Sorry, you chaps.”
“What’s the gas?” cried Toby Sinclair. “I used to know something about chemistry.”
“Well, I didn’t,” said Drummond. “And whatever it is it’s not likely to be for the benefit of our health.”
“Keep the torch on the pipe, Hugh,” said Toby quietly.
He, too, put his finger on the end, then he tasted it and smelt it.
“I wonder,” he muttered, and his voice was shaking a little. “No smell: practically no taste. Do you fellows mind if I take a chance?”
“We mind strongly if you don’t,” said Drummond calmly. “And do it darned quickly.”
Sinclair struck a match: came a sudden little pop and from the end of the pipe there shot out a long blue flame.
“I was right,” he said, wiping his forehead. “It’s carbon monoxide. Another five minutes and she would have won. As it is if we take turns at breathing through the keyhole we ought to escape with only a head like the morning after.”
“Mother’s bright boy,” said Drummond lightly, but I saw his hand rest for a moment on Sinclair’s shoulder. “Explain.”
“Carbon monoxide, old boy. Don’t taste, or smell, and you can’t see it. One of the most deadly poisonous gases known to science. If you light it it forms carbon dioxide which isn’t poisonous, but only suffocates. So if as I say we breathe through the keyhole in turn, and Peter isn’t too long, we ought to get away with it.”
It was a weird scene – almost fantastic. I remember thinking at the time that it simply couldn’t be true: that it was some incredible nightmare from which I should shortly wake up. In turn we solemnly stooped down, put our mouths to the keyhole and sucked in the pure air from the other side of the door. One, two, three; one, two, three – for all the world like performing marionettes.