Female of the Species

by Sapper

  And then the noise of the car starting recalled me to the present. Pedro must be the black man I had seen dodging past me down the road, and I had no wish to meet Pedro whatever. Crouching low, I dodged away from the place where the body lay: I had seen enough. I would go back to the hotel, and think things over tomorrow.

  I reached the railings, and cautiously crawled through them. Then I started on my three-mile walk. From behind me came the harsh cry of a night bird, and once I paused and listened. It seemed to me that I heard a strange, worrying noise, followed by a sharp shout that was instantly suppressed. With an involuntary shudder I walked on, till the dim outline of the giant stones were hidden by the hill. Nothing would have induced me to return to the place again. But I couldn’t help wondering what further horror had happened there. Had the Negro suddenly encountered the other wanderer by night? And who was it who had shouted?

  One ray of light, and one ray only shone in the general fog. They had intended to kill Algy Longworth that night: they therefore intended to kill Darrell and Jerningham. The last lingering doubt that this woman intended to play the game had been dispelled. And it was therefore imperative that they should be warned. They must at all costs be kept away from the place. Once they were caught, the end would come at once: nothing could save Drummond’s wife. This woman Irma would imagine that we were all accounted for, and no further reason would exist for delay. So Algy would have to be sent away as soon as possible, and told to stop away until, at any rate, I had discovered the headquarters of our enemy.

  It ought not to be difficult, I reflected. Surely someone in the neighbourhood must have seen the Negro. He would be a conspicuous figure in a locality like this. And once he was identified, the house was identified. And once that was done, there was one thing on which I was absolutely determined. The police must be informed. If Drummond wouldn’t do it, then I would. It was essential: the house must be completely surrounded by a cordon of men. The time for fooling with matters was past: things were altogether too serious. We were up against a mad woman and a man who was infatuated with her. And they would have to be put under restraint, or else exterminated.

  Then another thought struck me. What if I informed the police at once, or first thing next morning, of what I had seen? Told them that in one of those old disused military sheds they would find the dead body of a man, and that the murderer was a Negro. That would take them direct to the place and settle things. As a foreigner, I took it, he would have to be registered: his address would, therefore, be known. The only trouble was that my own doings might require a little explanation. Why was I masquerading about in a disguise? Why had I entered my name in the hotel books as Seymour when it was really Dixon? Well – I should have to tell them everything, that was all, though I frankly did not relish the idea of trying to make a stolid local police-officer believe me. The whole thing sounded too much like a nightmare induced by a surfeit of lobster.

  I paused to light a cigarette, and as I did so I saw a red light on the road ahead of me. It was the tail-light of a car, and it was stationary. It seemed to be about a hundred yards away, and for a moment or two I stared at it thoughtfully. True, there was nothing inherently suspicious about a stationary motorcar, but tonight I was in a mood to suspect anything.

  I crept cautiously a little nearer. Something had evidently gone wrong: I could see the outline of the chauffeur as he peered into the bonnet. Another man was standing beside him holding an electric torch in his hands, and the chauffeur was tinkering with a spanner.

  Suddenly the man holding the light turned it for a moment on to the chauffeur’s face, and I stopped abruptly. For the chauffeur was the man who had sprung at me out of the ditch three nights before, and whose hands I could still feel on my throat. No doubt about it now: the car in front of me belonged to the enemy. And, surely, unless it was a very amazing coincidence, it must be the same car that had stopped by Stonehenge earlier.

  I crawled into the hedge and tried to decide on a line of action. There in front of me lay the means of running the gang to earth if only I could seize it. But how? Once the defect was put right, the car would be off, and manifestly I couldn’t follow it on foot. I cursed myself for not having come on a bicycle: then I might have had some chance. Now it was hopeless. And yet I knew that if I could but track that car to its destination our problem was solved.

  I crept a little nearer, and suddenly an idea dawned on me. The luggage grid was down at the back. Suppose I managed to get on that! It would have to be done with the utmost care: the exact psychological moment would have to be seized. Just as he let in his gear would be the time. And if I was spotted, I would pretend that I was trying to jump a ride. Disguised as I was, the chauffeur would not recognise me: the woman, anyway, did not know me, and the only danger was the other man, of whose identity I was still in ignorance. Still, it was worth the risk: the information, if I could get it, would be so invaluable.

  The chauffeur was closing the bonnet: the man who had been holding the light opened the door and got in. The moment had come. Stooping low, I ran the few yards to the back of the car, just as I heard the noise of the self-starter. Then the engine was raced for a few seconds, and I gripped the grid with both hands, and swung myself on to it. We were off.

  A wild feeling of triumph swept over me: so far, I had not been spotted. But it didn’t last long, and if the road had not been good, it would have lasted an even shorter time. For sheer discomfort, commend me to a ride on the luggage grid of a fast car. Several times I was nearly shot off as we went over bumps. In addition, the car was over lubricated, and emitted a dense cloud of blue smoke from just underneath me. But for all that, I felt it was worth it: I’d done the trick. I’d succeeded where, at any rate, up to date the others had failed. All that was necessary now was to hang on until we reached our destination – drop off as the car slowed down, and escape into the darkness. And in spite of my extreme agony, I almost laughed as I pictured Drummond’s face the next morning when he heard the news.

  I felt the brakes being applied, and heaved a sigh of relief. And then the car swung right-handed, and turned through a gate. I could tell by the scrunch of gravel under the tyres that we were in a drive, and suddenly a light inside the car was switched on. That was a complication I had not thought of, for now the ground behind the car was illuminated through the back window. And if either of the occupants happened to look out, they were bound to see me when I dropped off. I hesitated, squeezing myself as close as possible to the car. Should I chance it? And while I was trying to make up my mind, the car stopped at the front door.

  Now I thought detection was certain, but still my luck held. The man and the woman passed into the house: the door closed behind them. And the next instant the car moved on. Once again did I get ready to jump off, when the noise of the gravel ceased, and I realised we were in the garage. Moreover, it was a big garage, and the chauffeur had driven the car in as far as it would go so that I had at least ten yards to cover before reaching the door. I heard him get down and start fiddling with some tools on a bench. Should I make a dart for it now? Then the lights were switched off, and he yawned prodigiously. He had evidently finished for the night, and I only just had time to dodge to one side of the car as he came by on the other.

  He heaved on the sliding doors, and they met with a clang. A key turned: his footsteps died away. And I couldn’t help it – I laughed. The situation really had its humorous side. Without doubt I had successfully tracked the tiger to its lair – so successfully that I was inside while the tiger was out. And as my position came home to me I stopped laughing: the humour of the situation lay with the tiger.

  I started to make a tour of inspection. The main doors were locked: there was nothing to be hoped for in that quarter. And a brief survey of the windows showed that none of them were made to open. Cautiously I felt my way along to the further end. A wooden bench littered with spanners and things filled three-quarters of it: in the other quarter, and my hopes rose as I saw it
, was a second door. I tried the handle: it was locked. That finished it: I was caught like a rat in a trap. With the arrival of the chauffeur next morning I must be discovered. Nothing could prevent it.

  What a drivelling idiot I had been! I had accomplished absolutely nothing. I didn’t even know where I was, which would have been some recompense. Then, even if they kept me a prisoner, I might have found an opportunity of communicating with Drummond. As it was, all that I had succeeded in doing was to get locked up in an unknown place.

  What about breaking one of the windows? It gave me a possibility of escape, whereas if I waited there was none. But I soon realised the difficulty of the idea. The panes were small – far too small for me to squeeze through. It would mean smashing wood and everything, and there, not ten yards away, was the house. Still, it was a possibility. I was bound to be heard, but in the general confusion I might escape. And even as I was turning the matter over in my mind I stiffened into sudden rigidity. A light was shining below the bottom of the second door, and I could hear footsteps approaching.

  The key turned, and I dodged behind the car. A man came in, and I could hear him cursing under his breath. He had an electric torch in his hand, and he appeared to be searching for some tool on the bench. His back was towards me, and for a moment I had the wild idea of hurling myself on him and taking him unawares. I think if I had had any weapon in my hand I would have done so and chanced it.

  He found what he wanted, and left the garage. My opportunity, if it ever really had been an opportunity, had gone. But had it? For he had left the door wide open.

  Light streamed in, and I crept a little nearer. He was walking along a short passage, and a further door at the other end was open. It led into a room, and it was from the room that the light came. The passage was evidently to enable one to reach the garage from the house under cover, but it was not of such prosaic details that I was thinking. It was the brief glimpse I had obtained of the interior of the room, that made me rub my eyes and wonder if I was dreaming.

  The entire furniture appeared to consist of big stones. I had seen no chair – no table, only square and oblong stones. At least, I thought they were stones: they certainly looked like stones – stones about three or four feet long and a foot thick. And if they were stones, what in the name of fortune were they there for? Had I come to a private lunatic asylum? Was the whole place bughouse?

  He had half-closed the second door behind him, so that I could no longer see anything from the garage. But I could still hear, and the noise was the noise a stone-mason makes when chipping with a cold chisel.

  I crept even nearer. Confound the risk, I thought; I was caught, anyway. And by this time my curiosity was so intense that it banished fear. At last I got near enough to see into the room, or, rather, into a part of it. And what I saw confirmed my opinion. They were bughouse: the whole darned lot of them.

  The room was a big one, and the first impression that it gave was that it had been specially prepared for some mystical religious ceremony. The walls were completely concealed with black curtains, and a thick black carpet covered the floor. On this carpet, in the portion of the room that I could see, big greyish-white stones were lying about apparently haphazard. Some were on their sides: others stood endways. Some lay isolated: others were arranged as a child might arrange bricks. One particular group that I could see consisted of four stones on end and spaced at intervals of about a foot, with a fifth laid flat across their tops. In short, the whole effect was that of a stone-mason’s yard arranged by its owner when under the influence of alcohol.

  Through the black curtains the lights stuck out – big, white, frosted lights that seemed to hang unsupported in the air. And after a while, as I looked at the one opposite me, it began to have the most extraordinary effect on my brain. First it would diminish in size, receding into the distance until it was only the size of a pin’s head; then it would come rushing towards me, blazing bigger and bigger, till it seemed to fill the whole room. I found myself swaying, and with a monstrous effort I looked away. Almost had I walked towards that light, self-hypnotised.

  I forced myself to think of other things, and after a while the influence waned. What on earth was this extraordinary room? What was the man doing on the other side of the door? I could not see him, but steadily, monotonously, the chip, chip, chip went on. And then it suddenly stopped.

  I glanced up, only to shrink back against the wall of the passage. Where she had come from I did not know, but there, standing in the middle of the room, was the woman. It was the first time I had seen her without a hat, and for a while I could only gaze at her speechlessly.

  She was dressed in some sort of loose white robe, and as she stood there outlined against the black background, a hand resting lightly on one of the big stones, she seemed like the priestess of some ancient cult. Her beauty was almost unearthly: her whole appearance utterly virginal. In her eyes there glowed a strange light – a light such as might have shone in the eyes of a martyr. And I felt that her soul was all the depth and height of space away.

  It was incredible to think ill of such a woman – to believe her capable of evil. Almost did I believe that she was someone else – someone I had not seen before. To think that it was she who had planned the death trap at the Mere; to think it was her I had heard talking coarsely and brutally at Stonehenge not two hours ago seemed unbelievable. And then it came once more, that faint scent like jasmine – and yet not quite jasmine.

  “Have you finished?”

  She spoke quietly, and now her voice was a delight to hear. And then she stiffened and drew herself up. Into her face there came a look of disgusted contempt. But the poor fool kneeling at her feet, with his arms round her knees, was oblivious of it. He was stammering wild words of love, was the man who looked like Lakington; and so engrossed was I in the scene that the fact of my unknown man being the man who looked like Lakington seemed almost trivial. What did it matter who he was, poor devil: he was just an actor in the game that is age-old.

  “When, my beloved, are you coming to me?”

  Again and again he said it, his voice shaking, his hands trembling. And she just stood there, utterly aloof: to her he was non-existent. Her eyes were fixed in front of her, and once her lips moved as if she was speaking to someone no earthly vision could see. Even as I had seen her speak at the Mere.

  “Have you finished?”

  With a sigh of utter weariness the man rose to his feet.

  “Yes,” he said. “I have.”

  She smiled, and held out her hand.

  “Good. For now there must be no delay, my friend. Pedro’s mistake has forced our hand. By the way, is he back?”

  The man shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know. Probably by this time.”

  “Anyway, I have written a letter which must be delivered to one of the three tomorrow morning. We know that Longworth is here, so he will therefore be the one. Listen, I will read it to you.

  “‘My friends, the game has begun to pall. My revenge is sufficient. If you will follow the bearer of this you will come to your destination. And the widow shall be handed over to you. If you don’t: if you are afraid to come, you will still be quite safe. No further steps will be taken against you. You will not be worth it. But Phyllis Drummond will die. So take your choice. Her life lies in your hands.

  “‘But let me repeat the warning given to your late lamented leader. My information is good, so no police. Otherwise Phyllis Drummond will die before you get here.’”

  “But, carissima,” cried the man, “will they come on that? It seems such an obvious trap.”

  “Quite clearly, Paul,” she said, “you have much to learn concerning the mentality of Englishmen of their type. They will come, even if a cordon of machine-gunners stood in their way. And we shall be ready for them.”

  “And then? After it is over?”

  He stared at her hungrily, as if trying to read her very soul.

  “After it is over,” she
repeated coolly. “Why, then, my dear Paul, we shall see.”

  “But you promised,” he muttered. “You promised by all you held sacred. Beloved” – his voice grew urgent and pleading – “for nearly a year I have worked unceasingly to give you your revenge. Worked without reward: at times without thanks. Only hope has kept me going, carissima – the hope that when all was over you would come to me. And now, you say, ‘We shall see.’ Never have I kissed your lips during all these long months. Irma – say to me, promise me again – that I have not worked in vain.”

  “No, mon ami,” she said. “You have not worked in vain.”

  With a cry of joy he snatched one of her hands and smothered it with kisses. And over his bent head I saw her face. She was shaking with a hideous, silent laughter. I craned forward fascinated: that such a change could take place in any human being’s expression seemed impossible. No longer a priestess of unearthly beauty, but evil incarnate that made one shudder to look at.

  Suddenly the man straightened up, and instantly her face became a mask. Even did she go so far as to smile encouragingly at the poor fish.

  “No, Paul,” she repeated. “You have not worked in vain. Tomorrow night…”

  The sentence was never finished; too late I realised that in my absorption I had stepped into the light. For a moment or two she stared at me in silence. Then – “Who is that man?”

  Like a flash her companion swung round.

  “Why,” he said softly, “it’s the bank clerk. Have you come to see my collection?”

  He was moving towards me as he spoke, and in his right hand there gleamed a wicked-looking automatic.

  “Come in, bank clerk,” he said, still in the same deadly soft voice. “I am honoured indeed, even if the hour is a little unconventional.”

  Chapter 14

  In which I meet Mrs Drummond