Female of the Species

by Sapper

  The situation was undeniably awkward. The fact that I had realised all along that detection was inevitable, made it none the less unpleasant when it came. And I liked neither the look of the automatic nor that on the man’s face. I stepped into the room.

  “I fear it must seem a little strange,” I began, making a valiant endeavour to keep my voice steady.

  “It does,” he agreed suavely. “May we be favoured with an explanation?”

  I plunged desperately.

  “To tell you the truth,” I said, “I lost my way. I went out for a long walk tonight, and after taking one or two turnings I realised I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was. Passing along the road, I saw this house, and I came up to see if someone could put me right. I couldn’t get any answer, but I saw your garage door was open. So I went in, meaning to ask when the car returned. And I suppose I must have fallen asleep, for when I woke up, the car was back and the door locked.”

  “I see,” said the man. “It seems a pity that such a big discrepancy exists between the first few words of your explanation and the rest.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” I remarked, uncomfortably conscious that a pulse was hammering in my throat.

  “You prefaced your interesting little story,” he explained, “by the five words, ‘To tell you the truth’. Why not do so?”

  With a faint feeling of relief, I saw that the automatic was no longer in his hand.

  “I am not accustomed–” I began haughtily.

  “Be silent,” said the woman imperiously. “Do I understand you know this man, Paul?”

  “I met him at Stonehenge yesterday afternoon, my dear,” he remarked. “A bank clerk with lengthy holidays. South Africa last year; Australia next. I must apply for a position in that bank.”

  His eyes were boring into me, and I could have kicked myself with mortification. I, who had thought that my playing of the part had been perfect – that I alone was unsuspected. I tried another bluff.

  “You are very clever, sir,” I said coldly. “But not quite clever enough. My father keeps one of the few remaining private banks, in which I am a clerk. But, as you will understand, not an ordinary clerk. And to broaden my mind he has allowed me to travel extensively.”

  “Most interesting,” he answered. “And most considerate of your father. Anyway, that’s better than the one before. You’re improving.”

  “Stop all this nonsense,” said the woman harshly. “Why wasn’t I told about this man?”

  “My dear,” he said pleadingly, “what was the use?”

  “On your own showing,” she snapped, “you suspected him. Why wasn’t I told?” Her voice was vibrating with anger. She swung round on me. “Who are you, you little rat?”

  “My name is Seymour,” I stammered.

  Suddenly her mood changed, and she lit a cigarette.

  “Put him in one of the seats,” she ordered quietly.

  “This way, Mr Seymour,” said the man.

  “And what if I refuse,” I blustered.

  For a moment he stared at me – thin lipped and motionless.

  “Just this,” he said gently, “I will blow out your brains where you stand.”

  “A messy proceeding.” I strove to speak jauntily. “But may I ask–”

  He whipped out his revolver and covered me.

  “Move,” he snarled. “And move damned quick. Come here.”

  He crossed to one of the stones, so did I. The more I saw of that man, the less I liked him.

  I found that the stone at which he was pointing had been fashioned into a sort of rough seat.

  “Sit down, and put your arms where I tell you. There – and there.”

  I obeyed: there didn’t seem anything else to do. And then there came a sudden click, and I felt two thin steel bars close over my wrists. I tugged and he laughed quietly.

  “I wouldn’t waste your time,” he remarked. “You’re as much a part of the furniture now as the stone you are sitting on.”

  “Look here, sir,” I said, “this is going beyond a joke. I admit that I had no right whatever to be in your garage, but that doesn’t afford you any justification for treating me like this.”

  He took no notice: he was speaking in low tones to the woman. And suddenly she nodded and came towards me. For a time she stood in front of me staring into my eyes, and then she spoke.

  “Do you know Hugh Drummond?”

  Now subconsciously, I suppose, I had been expecting that question, and on that one little effort of mine I do flatter myself.

  “Hugh Drummond.” I looked at her blankly. “I’ve never heard of the man in my life.”

  Still she stared at me, but my face gave nothing away. And at last she turned and spoke to the man.

  “Well,” I heard him say, “we might try.” She crossed to a door hidden in the curtains and disappeared, leaving me alone with the man.

  “What has happened,” he said suddenly, “to that egregious fraud who was pretending to collect butterflies?”

  “I haven’t an idea,” I answered. “He left the hotel before dinner.”

  “Say nothing about him,” he said curtly. “It will pay you not to.”

  “I wasn’t proposing to,” I remarked. “I fail to see the slightest reason for discussing a casual hotel acquaintance, or what bearing he has on my present position.”

  “If you hadn’t been a damned fool you wouldn’t be in your present position. Now the truth, my friend. Who are you, and how did you come here?”

  “I have nothing to add to what I have already said,” I answered.

  He stared at me moodily, and I grew more and more puzzled. Try as I would I couldn’t get a line on his mental attitude. If, as I now knew, he had spotted Toby Sinclair as a fraud, and me also, one would have expected him to show signs of gratification, even of triumph at having caught one of us so easily. Instead of which he seemed positively annoyed at my presence. True I had interrupted him in the middle of his love-making, but I felt that didn’t account for it.

  “You must be one of them,” he said half to himself. “And that butterfly fool as well. Damn it! you swarm like rabbits.”

  I said nothing: light was beginning to dawn on the situation. Our thin-lipped friend wanted the lady, and wanted her quickly. But before he got her, he had in the vernacular, to do a job of work. And that job had consisted up till now of disposing of the six of us. He believed that three were accounted for: the others were to be settled in the near future. And now he was confronted as he thought with further additions to the party, and therefore further delay in obtaining his purpose.

  “How the devil did you get here?” he repeated angrily.

  “I have nothing to add to what I have already said,” I repeated with a smile.

  “Damn you,” he snarled. “You’ll smile the other side of your face before long. It may amuse you to know that you’ll never leave this room alive.”

  “That,” I remarked with a confidence I was very far from feeling, “remains to be seen.”

  He took out his cigarette-case savagely and started pacing up and down. And I for the first time since I had come into the room, began to examine it more thoroughly. And the more I examined it the more amazing did it become. The whole of it was in keeping with the part I had seen from the passage. Stones – and yet more stones, placed apparently indiscriminately. And yet, were they? Was there not some definite design? And as I stared round trying to find the solution, I noticed a thing which gave me a queer little thrill. There were other roughly shaped seats beside the one I was sitting in – five others, making six in all. And each one was fitted with the same steel bars that encircled my own wrists. Six chairs, and six of us. What fantastic scheme had been evolved in that woman’s deranged brain? Time, I reflected grimly and time alone would tell.

  The sound of a door opening made me turn my head: Irma had returned. But now another woman was with her – a woman who was blindfolded. And with a sudden quickening of my pulse I realised that th
is must be Phyllis Drummond herself.

  She had evidently been awakened from sleep. Her bare feet were thrust into slippers: and she had slipped a peignoir over her pyjamas. Her face under the handkerchief that covered her eyes was pale, but absolutely determined: guided by her captor’s hand on her arm she walked firmly and without hesitation until she was halted in front of my chair.

  “What new foolery is this?” she asked scornfully, and I metaphorically took off my hat to her. Captivity had not broken her spirit.

  “No foolery at all, my dear, but a very pleasant surprise for you.”

  Mrs Drummond’s hands clenched convulsively.

  “You don’t mean that Hugh has found me?”

  A faint smile passed over Irma’s face; the news of Drummond’s supposed death had evidently been suppressed.

  “Not quite that,” answered the other, “but one of his friends has.”

  “Then,” said Mrs Drummond breathlessly, “he has succeeded. And so I am free to go. Who is it? Is it you, Peter?”

  With a quick movement Irma whipped off the handkerchief, and for a while Drummond’s wife stared at me blankly. Then she turned wearily to her captor.

  “Why torment me?” she said. “What’s the good? You know Hugh’s friends. I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

  And Irma who had been watching her intently relaxed and turned to the man.

  “That’s genuine,” she said briefly.

  “Is this by any chance,” I remarked ponderously, “a private lunatic asylum?”

  “You may well ask, sir,” said Mrs Drummond. “I don’t know who you are, or how you came here, but there is at any rate one mad person present. And that is this woman.”

  Irma laughed, and lit a cigarette.

  “Dear little Phyllis,” she murmured. “Always so direct and positive, aren’t you? And now that you’ve been introduced to this room a little sooner than I had intended, tell me what you think of it?”

  Mrs Drummond looked about her, a look of complete bewilderment spreading gradually over her face.

  “What on earth does it all mean?” she said at length. “What are all these stones for?”

  “A model, my dear,” answered the other gently, “that it has taken Paul much labour and trouble to construct. A model that is accurate in every detail.”

  “A model of what?”

  “Of Stonehenge. One or two of the stones have been left out, but all the important ones are here. There for instance you see the Friar’s Heel, and that one is the altar stone. You know the legend, of course. Some authorities do not believe in it, but it’s a very pretty fairy story anyway. It runs that when the first rays of the rising sun on Midsummer Day shining over the Friar’s Heel strike this third stone, the name of which I have not yet told you, the ceremony begins.”

  Her voice was soft and almost caressing, nevertheless my lips were dry. For I knew what the third stone was.

  “It must have been an interesting ceremony, Phyllis. Can’t you see those wild-eyed priests clad in fantastic garments; can’t you see that great rolling plain and the waiting multitude of savages – waiting in the hush that comes before the dawn for the first gleam of the sun above the horizon?”

  I was staring at her fascinated: her eyes were glittering feverishly – her cigarette was forgotten.

  “A minute more – and a sigh runs round the spectators. A few seconds, and the excitement grows. You can feel it – hear it like wind rustling in the trees.

  “Inside the sacred circle stand the priests – some by the altar stone, some by this third stone here. All eyes are turned towards the east to greet the arrival of their god. This is the day on which He vouchsafes them His visible presence longest: this is the day on which it is meet and proper that He should be propitiated and thanked. An offering must be made: a sacrifice given.

  “And on this third stone, waiting too, for that first ray to strike her, lies the sacrifice. For those around her, for the hushed multitude outside the moment that is just coming means life – the continuation of the benefits their God has bestowed on them since last Midsummer Day. For her it means – death: the stone on which she lies is the slaughter stone.”

  She fell silent, and I glanced at Mrs Drummond. She was staring at the speaker with a dawning horror in her eyes, and suddenly she bit the back of her hand to keep back a cry. She knew – and I knew. But after a moment she pulled herself together with a great effort.

  “Most interesting,” she remarked steadily. “And did you have all these stones put up so that you could play charades on them?”

  Slowly the madness faded from the other’s face, and she flicked the ash from her cigarette onto the carpet.

  “That’s it,” she smiled. “A little game of let’s pretend. We shall be playing it tomorrow, my dear – or rather tonight. What part would you like to take?”

  The silence grew unbearable, and yet once again did I take off my hat to that poor girl. She was powerless: she was trapped – but she was white clean through.

  “I am not very good at acting,” she said indifferently.

  “Yours will be a passive – even if a very important role,” returned the other. “No histrionic ability will be required.”

  “And may I ask,” I remarked politely, “if I am to be privileged with a part? I must say I don’t think much of the comfort of your stalls.”

  For the moment at any rate my role was clear: I must remain the outsider who had blundered into a madhouse. Slowly the woman turned and stared at me.

  “I think you will look nice as a dead-head,” she murmured.

  “Am I to understand that the rest of the audience will have paid for their seats?”

  “They will at any rate have worked hard,” she returned. “But I can assure you there will be no jealousy on that account. The unexpected guest is always welcome.”

  “Charming,” I said cheerfully. “At the same time, if it is all the same to you, I would rather like to know the hour the show starts, so that until then I can enjoy my very short holiday in the manner I had intended to. Frankly this seat is giving me cramp.”

  I winked ostentatiously at Mrs Drummond: obviously this female must be humoured. But there was no response from her: somewhat naturally she accepted my role at its face value.

  “This gentleman knows nothing about your wicked game,” she burst out. “It’s unfair, it’s unjust to keep him here.”

  “To know nothing about the play is always an advantage,” returned the other. “However, I grow weary. We will retire, my dear Phyllis – so that we shall both be fresh for the performance.”

  She led the way to the door, and I was left alone with the man.

  “Look here, sir,” I said angrily, “this has gone far enough. I admit that what I told you sounds a bit fishy: nevertheless it happens to be the truth. And I insist upon being allowed to go. Or if you wish to give me in charge then send for the police. But this is preposterous. You now know that I am not one of them, whoever ‘they’ may be.”

  “And you,” he retorted calmly, “now know altogether too much. So for the purposes of this entertainment – positively for one night only – I fear you will have to be treated as if you were one of them.”

  He strolled through the door leading to the garage, and I heard the chink of metal against metal as he put the tools back on the bench. My last hope had gone, my last bluff had failed. When Mrs Drummond had failed to recognise me, and Irma herself had said “That’s genuine,” there had seemed for a while a possibility of escape. Now there was none. Now everything must depend on Drummond. He would follow the other three, of course, but without an idea of the strength he was walking into.

  I counted them up in my mind. There was the man called Paul, the chauffeur; the man with the damaged hand; the sailor – and last but not least the Negro. So many I knew of personally; how many more there were remained to be seen. And what chance had Drummond against a bunch like that. If only I could have got away I could have warned
him.

  I began to tug desperately at the steel bars, until a woman’s laugh made me look up suddenly. Irma had returned.

  “You can save yourself the trouble, bank clerk,” she said mockingly, and at the sound of her voice Paul returned.

  “I suppose we had better gag him, my dear,” he remarked, and she nodded carelessly.

  “Yes,” she said. “Gag him – and then go.”

  “This is an outrage,” I spluttered, and the next instant he had deftly slipped a gag into my mouth, and then wrapped a handkerchief round me.

  “If I hear a sound,” he said quietly, “I shall come down and finish you off on the spot. Carissima, you must be tired.” He crossed to the woman. “Won’t you come to bed?”

  “Go,” she said curtly. “I shall come in a few minutes.”

  He went unwillingly, and for a while the woman stood motionless staring in front of her. The strange look had returned to her eyes: she had forgotten my existence. Noiselessly she moved about on the thick black carpet, the incarnation of grace and beauty. First to one stone, and then to another she glided, as a hostess might move round her drawing-room, giving it the finishing touches before the arrival of her guests.

  And then at last she paused before the altar stone. She knelt down, and ran her fingers along underneath it searching for something. At length she found it, and pulled it out. It was the photograph of a man.

  Fascinated I watched her as she kissed it passionately: then she placed it on the altar in front of her, and bowed her head as if in prayer. I heard the murmur of her voice, but the actual words I could not distinguish. And after a while, I began to feel drowsy. The gleaming white light opposite seemed to be growing bigger and bigger; my head lolled back. And on the instant I was wide awake again.

  Part of the roof was glassed in, like the roof of a racquet court, and some of the panes were open for ventilation. And staring through one of the openings was a man. His eyes were fixed on the kneeling woman: his face was inscrutable. Then he glanced at me, and for a brief second our eyes met. In an instant he had disappeared, and I was left trying to fit this new development into the jigsaw. For the man who had been staring through the skylight was the sailor.