by Sapper
Still her voice droned on musically, but I paid no attention. It confirmed, of course, my knowledge that the sailor was one of them, but why should he be on the roof? Spying, presumably: spying on the woman. And when he realised that I had seen him he had disappeared at once for fear I might say something.
“My lover! My God!”
Her words, clear at last, came through the silent room, and once again I looked at her. With her hands clasped together, she was rocking to and fro on her knees in front of the photograph.
“Tonight, I come to you, my beloved.”
And the lights shone on, gleaming like great stars against the black curtains. And the carpet seemed to glisten like some dark mountain pool deep hidden in the rocks. And the great white stones that rose from it took unto themselves life, and joined in a mighty chorus – “My beloved.”
I closed my eyes: I was dreaming. It was some dreadful nightmare.
“My beloved, I come to you.”
The sailor was shouting it: the man who had sprung at me out of the ditch was shouting it: Paul, his face a seething mass of black passion, was shouting it. I was shouting it, too – shouting it better than anyone – shouting it so well and so loudly that the woman herself, Irma, looked into my eyes and praised me. I could feel her fingers on my eyelids; from a great distance she nodded as if satisfied. Then came darkness: I slept.
It was daylight when I woke cramped and stiff in every limb. There was a foul taste in my mouth, and I wondered if I had been drugged. I had noticed nothing peculiar on the handkerchief, but only on that supposition could I account for my condition. My head ached: my eyes felt bleary, and I’d have given most of my worldly possessions for a cup of tea.
By a stupendous feat of contortion I twisted my head so that I could see my wrist watch, only to find that the damned thing had stopped. Not, I reflected, that it mattered very much what the time was: an odd hour or two this way or that was of little account situated as I was. And after a while I began to curse myself bitterly for having been such an utter fool. If only I hadn’t shown myself in the passage: if only…
But what was the use? I hadn’t slipped off the car: I had shown myself in the passage. And here I was caught without, as far as I could see, a chance of getting away. What made it more bitter still was the knowledge I possessed, the invaluable knowledge, if only I could have passed it on. Why if Hugh Drummond only knew he, with his marvellous shooting ability, could dominate the whole scene from the roof. But he didn’t know, and all he would do would be to walk straight into the trap after the other three.
After a while my thoughts turned in another direction, – even less pleasant than the first. What was in store for us? Was it all some grim, fantastic jest, or was it a revenge so terrible that the mere thought of it made me almost sick? Could it be conceivably possible that this foul woman intended to kill Mrs Drummond in front of us all? And afterwards deal with us?
It seemed inconceivable, and yet the trap at the Mere was just as dastardly. It was no good judging her by ordinary standards: therein lay the crux. She was mad, and to a mad woman everything is conceivable. Anyhow the present was bad enough without worrying over the future.
Faintly through the wall I heard the self-starter being used, and then the car leave the garage. That must be the note going to Darrell and Co. Would they walk into it blindly, or would they take some rudimentary precautions? Would they believe that this woman did really intend to set Mrs Drummond free if they came?
From every angle I turned the thing over in my mind, only to arrive at the same brick wall each time. Whatever they did do or didn’t do, I was out of the picture. I was powerless to help them in any way so there wasn’t much use worrying.
“Have we slept well?” came a sardonic voice from the door.
Paul with a sneering smile on his thin lips was standing there looking at me. Then he came over and removed the handkerchief and the gag. For a time I could only move my jaws stiffly up and down, and make hoarse grunting noises – a thing which seemed to cause him unbounded amusement.
“Damn you,” I croaked at last, “did you dope me last night?”
“A very efficacious and but little known narcotic, Mr Seymour,” he remarked suavely, “was on the handkerchief I put round your mouth. Was your sleep dreamless and refreshing?”
“For God’s sake,” I muttered, “give me something to drink. My tongue feels like a fungoidal growth.”
“A defect, I admit,” he said, “in that particular drug. It leaves an unpleasant taste. And so I have much pleasure in telling you that it is on the matter of breakfast that I have come.”
“Breakfast,” I shuddered. “If I saw an egg I’d be sick.”
There came a little click from behind my chair, and the steel bars slipped off my wrists.
“Stand up,” he said. “At the moment the warning is unnecessary, I know. But bear in mind that freedom from your late position does not imply any further concession. So – no monkey tricks.”
He was right: at the moment – and for a considerable number of moments – the warning was unnecessary. Both my arms had gone to sleep: and, as soon as I got up, I was attacked by the most agonising cramp in my left leg. But at last I managed to regain some semblance of normality.
“Where’s that drink?” I muttered.
“All in due course,” he returned. “Owing to the fact that certain small preparations have to be made here for our little entertainment tonight, we have to find other accommodation for you today. It would be a great pity if the element of surprise was lacking. And so you will come with me, Mr Seymour: and you will bear in mind that I have a revolver in my hand, Mr Seymour, and that my finger is on the trigger, Mr Seymour. And that should you give me the slightest trouble, you wretched interfering little busybody, that finger will connect with the trigger and the result will connect with you. So, hump yourself.”
I could feel the muzzle of his gun in the small of my back, as he pushed me towards the door. But I didn’t care: anything was better than the atrocious discomfort of that stone seat. Moreover a drink appeared to be looming in the horizon.
The door led into the hall. No one was about, and still in the same positions we reached the foot of the stairs.
“Up,” he said curtly.
At a turn in the staircase stood a grandfather clock, and I saw it was half-past nine. So I reckoned I must have slept for five or six hours.
“Through that door,” he ordered.
A man I had never seen before rose as we came in. But I didn’t care about him: my eyes were riveted on a teapot.
“Charles will be your companion for today,” he remarked. “And you had better look at Charles.”
I did: then I returned to the teapot. As an object to contemplate Charles did not appeal to me.
“Charles has orders,” continued the other, “to deal faithfully with you in the event of the slightest trouble. That is so, isn’t it, Charles?”
“I’ll deal with ’im faithfully, guv’nor,” he chuckled. “ ’E won’t try nothing on twice, I gives yer my word. Why, I’d eat a little mess like that.”
He emitted a whistling noise through a gap in his teeth.
“Paint the wall wiv ’is faice, I will,” he continued morosely.
“A character is Charles,” said Paul to me. “Equally handy with his fists or a knife. So be careful, Mr Seymour – very careful.”
I gulped down my cup of tea and began to feel better.
“I am sure I shall find him a most entertaining companion,” I murmured. “Now don’t let me detain you any more, little man. Run away and have your children’s hour with the bricks downstairs. Or are you going to play puffers in the passage?”
And, astounding to relate, it got home. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. His face was white with rage: his fists were clenched – evidently a gentleman without the saving grace of humour. But he controlled himself and went out slamming the door behind him, and I began to feel better still.
Anyway my limbs were free, and I’d had something to drink. Moreover there were cigarettes in my pocket.
“Charles,” I said, “will you smoke?”
Charles said – “Yus,” and I began to take close stock of Charles. And one thing was quite obvious at first glance. He was perfectly capable of painting the wall with my face if it came to a trial of strength. So that if I was going to turn the change of quarters to my advantage it would have to be a question of brain and cunning and not force. And the first and most obvious method seemed bribery.
I led up to it tactfully, but diplomacy was wasted on Charles. At the mention of the word money his face became quite intelligent.
“ ’Ow much ’ave you?” he demanded.
“About thirty pounds,” I answered. “It’s yours here and now if you’ll let me go, and then there’s nothing to prevent you clearing out yourself.”
“Let’s see the colour of it,” he said, and with a wild hope surging up in me I pulled out my pocket-book. If I got away at once I’d be in time.
“There you are,” I cried. “Twenty-eight pounds.”
“Looks good to me,” he remarked. “Though I ain’t partial to fivers myself. Some suspicious blokes takes the numbers. You ain’t suspicious, are you, matey?”
He slipped the bundle into his pocket, and I stood up.
“Is it safe now?” I said eagerly.
“Is wot safe now?”
“For me to go, damn it.”
“Go where?”
“Out of the house, as you promised.”
“Naughty, naughty,” he said reproachfully. “Do you mean to say that that there money was hintended as a bribe?”
I stared at him speechlessly.
“And I thort as ’ow it was just a little return for the pleasure of be-olding my faice.”
“You confounded scoundrel,” I spluttered. “Give me back my notes.”
Charles became convulsed with an internal upheaval that apparently indicated laughter.
“Yer know, matey,” he said when he could at last speak, “I didn’t know that they let things like you out of a ’ome.”
Once more the convulsion seized him, and a dull overmastering rage began to rise within me. The limit of my endurance had been reached: I felt I didn’t care what happened. Damn Drummond and all his works: damn the moment I’d ever let myself in for this fool show. Above all, damn this great hulking blackguard who had pinched my money, and now sat there nearly rolling off his chair with laughter.
And suddenly I saw red. I sprang at him and hit him with all my force in the face. Then while he was still too surprised to move I got in a real purler with the teapot over his right eye. And after that I frankly admit I don’t remember much more. I recall that he did not remain too surprised to move for long. I recall seeing something that gleamed in his hand, and feeling a searing, burning pain in my forearm. I also recall that an object which felt like a steam-hammer hit my jaw. Then – a blank.
Chapter 15
In which some of the others join me
When I came to myself I was back in the room below, fastened to the same seat as before. The filthy taste was in my mouth again, so I guessed they had used the narcotic on me once more. But this time that wasn’t my only trouble. My jaw felt as if it had been broken: and my arm, which someone had bound up roughly, ached intolerably.
For a while I sat there motionless. I was feeling dazed and drowsy: I’d almost come to the end of my tether. A sort of dull apathy had hold of me: I felt I didn’t care what happened as long as it happened quickly.
The room was absolutely silent, and after a time I forced my brain to work. I was alone: I was ungagged. Supposing I shouted for help. There was a bare chance that I might be heard by some stray passer-by. Anyway it was worth trying.
“Help!” I roared at the pitch of my lungs. “Help!”
I listened: still no sound. Very good: I’d try again. I opened my mouth: I shut it. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say it shut itself.
A huge black hand had suddenly materialised from nowhere – a hand with the fingers curved like a bird’s talon. I stared at it fascinated, as it moved gently towards my throat. There was no hurry, but the utmost deliberation in the whole action. And this time I nearly screamed in sheer terror.
The fingers closed round my throat, and began playing with it. Still quite gently: no force was used. But every touch of those fingers gave its own message of warning.
As suddenly as it had appeared, it went, and I sat there sweating and silent. So I was not alone: somewhere behind me, out of sight, was that cursed nigger Pedro. The hand that had closed on my throat was the actual hand that had murdered that poor devil the night before. And as if he had read my thoughts there came from above my head a hideous throaty chuckle. Then silence once again.
Gradually I grew calmer, though the thought of that great black brute lurking behind me was horrible. If only I could see the devil it would be better. But he remained out of sight, and after a time I began to think he must have gone. Into the garage perhaps – the passage leading to it was behind me. Whether he had or whether he hadn’t, however, I dismissed the idea of calling for help.
To distract my mind, I studied the room with closer attention. I could see more than half, and I wondered what the small preparations were that Paul had spoken of. As far as I could see nothing was changed: the same stones, the same carpet. And then it struck me that on one of the stone seats was what looked like a block of wood. It was about the size of a box of a hundred cigarettes, and a cord stuck out from one end on to the carpet.
I looked at the other seats: a similar block was on each one of them. And by pushing myself backwards in my own, I could feel the sharp edge against my spine.
By twisting my head I could just see the cord attached to it. It was a long one, and I followed it idly with my eyes across the carpet until it disappeared behind the next stone. Part of the preparations evidently, but with what purpose was beyond me. Just as everything else was beyond me. Time alone would show.
But that fact didn’t stop one thinking. Round and round in my head ran the ceaseless question – what was going to happen that night? From every angle I studied it till my brain grew muzzy with the effort. What was going to be done to us? Did that woman really mean all she had implied, or had it been a jest made to frighten Mrs Drummond?
After a while I dozed off, only to wake up sweating from an appalling dream in which two of the great stones were being used to crush my head by the nigger. Looking back now I suppose I was a little light-headed, but at the time I wasn’t conscious of it. I had lost a good deal of blood from the wound in my arm though I didn’t know it then. And as the day wore on, and the room gradually grew darker and darker I sank into a sort of stupor. Vaguely I heard odd sounds: the car in the garage, a man’s voice in the hall, but they seemed to come from a long way off. And the only real things in my mental outlook were those cursed white stones.
They moved after a while, passing me in a ceaseless procession. They heaved and dipped and formed fours, till I cursed them foolishly. And something else moved, too – a great black form that flitted between them peering and examining. Twice did I see it, and the second time I forced myself back to reality.
It was the Negro, and he seemed intensely interested in everything – almost childishly so. He touched stone after stone with his fingers: then he picked up one of the little blocks that I had noticed and examined it closely, grunting under his breath.
Suddenly he straightened up and stood listening. Then with a quick movement he replaced the block, and vanished behind me just as the door into the hall opened and Paul came in. He crossed to my stone and stood looking down at me, while I feigned sleep. And after a time he too began to stroll round amongst the other stones.
He examined each of the blocks, and the cords that ran from them. And as I watched him out of the corner of my eye I noticed a thing I had missed before. On the altar stone was a little bla
ck box, and all the cords appeared to lead to it. He seemed particularly interested in that box, but in the bad light I couldn’t see what he was doing. At length, however, he put it down, and lighting a cigarette once more came and stood in front of me. I looked up at him dully.
“You really are the most congenital ass I’ve ever met, Mr Seymour,” he said pleasantly. “Did you honestly think Charles would let you go?”
“I’ve given up trying to think in this mad house,” I retorted. “When is this ridiculous farce going to end?”
He made no reply for a while, but just stood staring at me thoughtfully.
“I really am rather interested in you,” he said at length. “It would be most devilish funny if you really have got nothing to do with them.”
“I’ve already told you that I don’t know what you are talking about,” I cried. “You’re making a fearful mistake. I don’t know who you mean by them.”
He began to chuckle.
“ ’Pon my soul,” he said, “I’m almost beginning to think that you don’t. Which makes the jest excessively rich.”
“A positive scream,” I agreed sarcastically. “Would it be too much to hope that I might be permitted to share it?”
“I fear,” he answered, “that you might not quite appreciate it.”
He continued to chuckle immoderately.
“You will in time, I promise you,” he went on. “And then you will see how terribly funny it all is. I must say,” he continued seriously, almost more to himself than to me, “I did think yesterday that you and the butterfly gentleman were mixed up in it.”
“I wish to Heaven,” I said wearily, “that you would realise that I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about. And I further wish you to be under no delusions as to what I’m going to do when I do manage to get out of this place.”
He started laughing again.
“What are you going to do?” he asked. “Don’t, I beg of you, terrify me too much.”
I stuck to it good and hard. Useless it might be, but at any rate it was better than nothing.