Female of the Species

by Sapper

  I looked at her gratefully, though I was too much upset to speak. I simply couldn’t understand the thing. Evidently Drummond had altered his plans since he’d sent the message through Darrell. But if so – and he didn’t want me to comply with his first instructions, why hadn’t he sent countermanding orders through Sinclair? And after a while I began to feel angry: the man was a damned fool. From beginning to end he had bungled every single thing. It was I who had borne the burden and heat of the whole show. And what possible hope had he got of deceiving anybody with that absurd false beard?

  “And have you any idea if our friend is coming soon,” pursued Irma sweetly. “Or shall we send a note to Amesbury, addressed to Mr Blackbeard?”

  “You needn’t worry,” said Sinclair sullenly. “He’s coming all right.”

  He glowered vindictively at me, and I glowered back at him. I was absolutely fed up – so fed up that I almost forgot what was in store for us. Of all the bungling, incompetent set of fools that I had ever known this much vaunted gang won in a canter. And their so-called leader was the worst of the lot.

  My mind went back to Bill Tracey’s remarks about him and the extraordinary things he had done. I’d tell Bill the truth when I next saw him. I’d put him wise. And then my stomach gave a sick heave: I should never see Bill again. The sweat poured down me: my anger had gone – reality had returned. In a short while this astounding farce would be over, and I should be dead.

  The room swam before me. I could only see the faces of the others through a mist. Dead! We should all be dead. By a monstrous effort I bit back a wild desire to shout and rave. That would be the unforgivable sin in front of this crowd. They might lack brains, but they didn’t lack courage.

  I pulled myself together and stared at them. Boredom was the only emotion they displayed – boredom and contempt. This foul woman could kill them all right: she could never make them whimper.

  “I’m damned sorry,” I said suddenly. “But for God’s sake don’t think it was treachery.”

  For a moment no one spoke. Then –

  “Sorry I said that,” said Toby gruffly. “Withdraw it and all that sort of rot.”

  Silence fell again: the only movement was Paul’s restless fidgeting. The woman still leaned gracefully against the altar stone. Mrs Drummond sat motionless, staring at the door.

  “He will probably be coming soon, Paul,” said Irma suddenly. “And it would be better not to give him any warning. Gag them.”

  “What about the girl?” he said.

  “Gag her as well, and put her in the vacant chair for a time.”

  “Don’t touch me you foul swine,” said Mrs Drummond coldly. “I will go there.”

  “And then when dear Hugh comes,” said Irma, “he shall take your place, Phyllis. Whilst you will be placed elsewhere.”

  She clenched her hands, and for a moment the feverish glitter returned to her eyes. Then she grew calm again.

  “Now turn out all the lights except the one at the end.”

  And so for perhaps ten minutes we sat there waiting. Once I heard Pedro’s throaty chuckle that seemed to come from the passage leading to the garage: and once I thought I heard the sound of a car on the road outside. Otherwise the silence was absolute.

  Through the open skylight I could see the stars, and I began wondering what had become of the sailor. Somewhere about the house I supposed: one of the infamous gang. And then I started to wonder how Drummond would come.

  Should I suddenly see his bearded face peering through at us – covering the woman with a revolver? But the stars still shone undimmed by any shadow, and after a while my brain refused to act. My arm was throbbing abominably. My thoughts began to wander.

  I was back in my club, and the woman Irma was the wine steward. It was absurd that I couldn’t get a drink before eleven o’clock in the morning in my own club. A fatuous war-time regulation that should be repealed. I’d write to my MP about it. Everybody ought to write to their MP about it. Here was that doddering ass old Axminster coming in. Thought he owned the place because he was a peer… What was he saying? I listened – and suddenly my thoughts ceased to wander.

  It wasn’t Axminster: it was the man with the damaged hand.

  “A big bloke with a black beard is dodging through the bushes towards the house,” he said. “What are we to do?”

  The woman stretched out her arms ecstatically.

  “Let him come,” she cried triumphantly. “Pedro.”

  Came another throaty chuckle from behind me.

  “Come into the room after him, Pedro. Don’t let him see you. Then I leave him to you. But don’t kill him.”

  Chapter 17

  In which the curtain rings down

  So long as I live I shall never forget the tension of the next few minutes. The light was so dim that the faces of the others were only blurs. Paul had joined the woman, and they were standing side by side against the altar stone. The door in the hall was ajar, and the hall itself was in darkness so that it was impossible to see anything distinctly.

  “He had a scheme: an absolute winner.”

  Sinclair’s words came back to me, and I wondered what it was. Had I really done the whole lot of us in by my indiscretion? But at last the period of waiting was over. Drummond’s voice could be heard in the hall.

  “Very little light in this house.”

  The woman by the altar stiffened.

  “His voice,” she said exultingly. “Drummond at last.”

  And then, or was it my imagination, there seemed to come a funny sort of hissing noise from the hall. Had the Negro got him already? But no, he was speaking again.

  “I am a police-inspector, and I wish to see the lady of the house on a very important matter.”

  In the dim light I could just see Darrell’s expression of blank amazement, and I sympathised with him. Was this the brilliant scheme? If so, was a more utterly fatuous one ever thought of? Why, his voice gave him away.

  “A very serious matter. I may say that I have two plain clothes men outside. What is that door at the end there? Don’t attempt to detain me. Oh! I see – you’re leading the way, are you?”

  The door opened, and there stood Drummond. I could just see his black beard, but it wasn’t at him that I looked for long. He took a couple of steps into the room, and like a shadow the Negro slipped in – dodging behind the curtain. I heard hoarse gurgling noises coming from the others as they strove to warn him, but Paul had done his work too well.

  With a swift movement he stepped back and shut the door, so that Pedro was not more than a yard from him.

  “Good evening, Inspector. Your voice is very familiar.”

  “A little ruse, my poppet,” said Drummond pleasantly, “for getting into the august presence. May I say that I have a revolver in my hand, in case you can’t see it in this light? And will you and your gentleman friend put your hands up? I’ve dealt with one of your myrmidons outside in the hall, and my temper is a bit ragged.”

  With a faint smile the woman raised her hands, and Paul followed suit.

  “How are you, mon ami?” she said. “We only required you to complete the family circle. In fact I was desolated when I thought you’d succumbed at the Mere.”

  I worked madly at the handkerchief with my jaws. Why didn’t he come further into the room? At any second the Negro might spring on him.

  “And what is this ridiculous entertainment?” he asked.

  “Specially staged for you, Hugh,” she answered.

  “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time,” he said shortly. “A truce to this fooling. I’ve had enough of it. You and the swine with you are for it, now.”

  “Are we?” she mocked.

  “Yes – you are. Come here, you swab. I don’t know your name, and I don’t want to, but hump yourself.”

  “And if I refuse?” said Paul easily.

  “I’ll plug you where you stand,” answered Drummond. “I don’t know how my wife and friends are secured, but set the
m free. And no monkey tricks.”

  And then, with a superhuman effort I got the handkerchief half off my mouth.

  “Look out behind,” I croaked, and even as I spoke the gleaming white teeth of the Negro showed over his shoulder. That was all I could see at that distance, but I could hear.

  There came a startled grunt from Drummond, that foul throaty chuckle from the black man, and the fight commenced. And what a fight it was in the semi-darkness. I forgot our own peril: forgot what depended on the issue in the thrill of the issue itself. Dimly I could see them swaying to and fro, each man putting forward every atom of strength he possessed, whilst Irma swayed backwards and forwards in her excitement and the man Paul went towards the struggling pair in case he was wanted.

  “Leave them, Paul,” she cried tensely. “Let Drummond have his last fight.”

  And then Darrell got his gag free.

  “Go it, Hugh; go it, old man,” he shouted.

  I heard someone croaking hoarse sounds of encouragement, and suddenly realised it was myself. And then gradually the sounds ceased, and my mouth got strangely dry. For Drummond was losing.

  From a great distance I heard Darrell muttering “My God!” over and over again to himself, and from somewhere else came pitiful little muffled cries as Mrs Drummond realised the ghastly truth. Her husband was losing.

  It was impossible to see the details, but of the main broad fact there was no doubt. At long last, Drummond had met his match. The nigger’s chuckles were ceaseless and triumphant, though Drummond fought mute. But slowly and inexorably he was being worn down. And then step by step the black man forced him towards the chair where his wife was sitting.

  “Take Phyllis out, Paul,” cried Irma suddenly. “Take her out.”

  Foot by foot, faster and faster the pair swayed towards the empty seat. Drummond was weakening obviously, and suddenly with a groan he gave in and crumpled. And then in a couple of seconds it was over. He was flung into the chair, and with a click the steel bars closed over his wrists. He was a prisoner, the family circle was complete.

  With a heart-broken little cry his wife, who had torn off her gag, flung her arms around him and kissed him.

  “Darling boy,” she cried in an agony; then abruptly she straightened up and stood facing her enemy. And if her voice when she spoke was not quite steady, who could be surprised?

  “You foul devil,” she said. “Get it over quickly.”

  And Pedro’s evil chuckle was the only answer. I glanced at Irma, and for the time she was beyond speech. Never have I seen such utter and complete triumph expressed on any human being’s face: she was in an ecstasy. Standing in front of the bust of Peterson, she was crooning to it in a sort of frenzy. The madness was on her again.

  “My love, my King: he has been beaten. Do you realise it, my adored one: Drummond has been beaten. You are here, my Carl: your spirit is here. Do you see him – the man who killed you – powerless in my hands?”

  Gradually she grew calmer, and at length Paul spoke.

  “There is no reason for more delay now, carissima,” he said urgently. “Let us finish.”

  She stared at him broodingly.

  “Finish – yes. All will be finished soon, Paul. But for a few minutes I will enjoy my triumph. Then we will stage our play.”

  She looked at each of us in turn – a look of mingled triumph and contempt.

  “Ungag them, Paul; and Pedro – you attend to the white woman should she give trouble.”

  She waited till Paul had obeyed her – gloating over us, and the full realisation of our position came sweeping over me. Great though the odds against him had been, some vestige of hope had remained while Drummond was still free. Now our last chance had gone: we were finished – outwitted by this woman. And though nothing could have been more utterly futile and fatuous than Drummond’s behaviour, I felt terribly sorry for him.

  Still breathing heavily after his fight, he sat there with his chin sunk on his chest looking the picture of despondency. And I realised what he must be going through. Beaten, and knowing that the result of that beating meant death to us all and to his wife. And yet – angry irritation surged up in me again – how on earth could he have expected anything else? If ever a man had asked for trouble he had. Now he’d got it, and so had we.

  All the fight seemed to have gone out of him: he was broken. And when I looked at the others they seemed broken, too – stunned with the incredible thing that had happened. That Drummond, the invincible, should have met his match at last – should be sitting there as a helpless prisoner – had shattered them. It was as if the Bank of England had suddenly become insolvent. And it was like Peter Darrell to try and comfort him.

  “Cheer up, old son,” he said lightly. “If that nigger hadn’t caught you unawares from behind, you’d have done him.”

  And Drummond’s only reply was a groan of despair, whilst his wife stroked his hair with her hand, and Pedro, like a great black shadow, hovered behind her.

  “Possibly,” answered Irma. “That ‘if’ should be a great comfort to you all during the next half-hour.”

  “All is ready,” said Paul. “Let us start.”

  “Yes; we will start. But, as this is our last meeting, are there any little points you would like cleared up or explained? You, my dear Drummond, seem strangely silent. It’s not surprising, I admit; complete defeat is always unpleasant. But, honestly, I can’t congratulate you on your handling of the show. You haven’t been very clever, have you? In fact, you’ve been thoroughly disappointing. I had hoped, at any rate, for some semblance of the old form, certainly at the end, but instead of that you have given no sport at all. And now – it is over.”

  She fell silent, that strange brooding look on her face, until at length Paul went up to her.

  “For Heaven’s sake, carissima,” he said urgently, “do not let us delay any longer. I tell you I fear a trap.”

  “Why do you fear a trap?” she demanded.

  “They have come into our power too easily,” he said doggedly. “They have walked in with their eyes open, it seems to me.”

  “All that matters is that they have walked in,” she answered. “And now, whatever happens, they will never walk out again. Do you hear that, Drummond, I said – whatever happens.”

  He made no answer, until the Negro, with a snarl of rage, thrust his evil face close to him.

  “I hear,” he said sullenly.

  “It matters not,” she cried triumphantly, “if a cordon of police surround the house; it matters not if they batter at the doors – they will be too late. Too late.”

  She breathed the words deliriously; the madness was coming on her again.

  “But,” stammered Paul, “how shall we get away?”

  She waved him from her imperiously.

  “Be silent; you bore me.” Once more she turned to the plaster cast. “Do you realise, my Carl, what has happened? They are all here – all of them. Drummond and his wife are here; the others are here waiting to expiate their crime. Their lives for yours, my King; I have arranged that. Is it your will that I delay no longer?”

  She stared at the bust as if seeking an answer, and somebody – I think it was Algy – gave a short, high-pitched laugh. Nerves were beginning to crack; only Mrs Drummond still stood cool and disdainful, stroking her husband’s hair.

  Suddenly the wild futility of the whole thing came home to me, so that I writhed and tugged and cursed. Seven of us were going to be killed at the whim of a mad woman! Murdered in cold blood! God! it was impossible – inconceivable… Why didn’t somebody do something? What fools they were – what utter fools!

  I raved at them incoherently, and told them what I thought of their brains, their mentality, and the complete absence of justification for their existence at all.

  “I told you she meant to kill us,” I shouted, “and you five damned idiots come walking into the most obvious trap that has ever been laid.”

  “Shut that man’s mouth,” said Irma q
uietly, and for the second time Pedro’s huge black hand crept round my throat – squeezing, throttling, so that half-choked I fell silent. After all, what was the use? Mad she might be, and undoubtedly was, but as she had said to Drummond, we were finished, whatever happened. And it was more dignified to face it in silence.

  “We will begin,” she said suddenly. “Paul, get Phyllis.”

  With a little cry, Mrs Drummond flung her arms round her husband’s neck.

  “Goodbye, my darling,” she cried, kissing him again and again. But he was beyond speech, and at length the Negro seized her and dragged her away.

  “Let me go, you foul brute,” she said furiously, and Paul, who was standing by the stone of sacrifice, beckoned to her to come. Proudly, without faltering, she walked towards him.

  “Lie down,” he said curtly.

  “Get it accurate, Paul,” cried Irma anxiously. “Be certain that it is accurate.”

  “I will be certain,” he answered.

  And then for the first time I realised that there were ropes made fast to rings in the stone. She was going to be lashed down. She didn’t struggle even when Pedro, chuckling in his excitement, helped to make her fast. And on her face was an expression of such unutterable contempt that it seemed to infuriate the other woman.

  “You may sneer, my dear Phyllis,” she stormed. “But look above you, you little fool; look above you.”

  With one accord we all looked up, and at the same moment a small light was turned on in the ceiling. And when he had seen what it illuminated, Ted Jerningham began to shout and bellow like a madman.

  “Stop it, you devil,” he roared. “Let one of us go there instead of her. My God! Hugh. Do you see?”

  But Drummond was still silent, and after a while Jerningham relapsed into silence, too. And as for me, I was conscious only of a deadly feeling of nausea.

  Hanging from a rafter was a huge, pointed knife. It was of an uncommon Oriental design, and it looked the most deadly weapon.

  “Yes, Hugh – do you see?” cried Irma mockingly. “Do you see what it is that hangs directly above your wife’s heart? It has been tested, not once, but many times, and when I release the spring it will fall, Hugh. And it will fall straight.”