by Sapper
And even as I came to that conclusion I happened to look in the glass in front of me. I could see over my shoulder the room behind me. The door was slowly shutting. With a great effort I forced myself to look round. Evidently Mr Thomas had returned.
But it wasn’t Mr Thomas. Standing almost on top of me was a masked figure, that in the fading light seemed of monstrous size. In a flash I took in the hump on his back, realised it was le Bossu Masqué himself, and then his hands shot out and he got my throat. I struggled wildly, and I am not generally considered a weakling. But in that man’s hands I might have been a child. The silent strangler had got me.
Soon there came a roaring in my ears, and still the grip held. I was losing consciousness: he was throttling me. And the last thing I remember before everything went black was the look of fierce triumph in his eyes.
CHAPTER 10
In which le Bossu retrieves his error
When I came to myself, for a moment or two I could recall nothing. Then in a wave it all came back to me. Once again I saw that terrible figure crouching over me, and felt those vicelike hands on my throat. Feeling a little dazed and sick, I scrambled to my feet. Of my assailant, there was no sign: the room was empty. And then another thing struck me: the kit that had been lying about was no longer there. Everything had gone, including the suitcase.
For a while I sat on the bed trying to pull myself together. My neck was most infernally sore: undoubtedly le Bossu well deserved his second nickname of the Strangler. Because it was useless to blind myself to the fact that had he wished to kill me he could easily have done so. Luckily he had not so wished, and I was still alive, but it was not due to any prowess on my part. He had decided to make me unconscious whilst he packed his things and left the hotel, and had calmly proceeded to do so.
I glanced at my watch: it was seven o’clock. I had been unconscious for roughly an hour. And it was as I replaced it in my pocket that my eye was caught by a big piece of folded paper lying half under the bed. I picked it up mechanically, and opened it out. And then, for a time, I stood gazing at it, literally unable to believe my eyes. It was the actual plan of Temple Tower which had been stolen from Laidley Towers the preceding night. I turned it over: on the back were written some lines in pencil.
I crossed to the window to examine it better: then, on second thoughts, I crammed it in my pocket. There would be plenty of time to study it later: the immediate necessity was to get out of the room. I calculated that he must have dropped it inadvertently when packing, and once he discovered his loss he would almost certainly return for it. And I had no wish whatever to encounter the gentleman by myself again. True, I could accuse him of half murdering me, but who was there to prove it? A stiff neck gives no outward and visible sign of its existence; it would only be my word against his. Whereas it would be obvious to all concerned that I was in a room where I had no right to be.
I opened the door cautiously and peered out. And with a sigh of relief I saw that no one was about. Even if I was seen leaving the room I should render myself liable to suspicion, but luck was with me. And ten seconds later I was in the hall again, with the precious plan in my pocket. There was no hurry now: I could afford to take my time. And the best thing to do, it struck me, was to inquire into Mr Thomas’ movements. So I walked over to the office.
“By the way,” I said to the girl, “has Mr Thomas returned yet?”
She looked at me in some surprise.
“Mr Thomas paid his bill and left half an hour ago,” she said. “He didn’t say anything about coming back.”
“I must have misunderstood his plans,” I remarked. “Did he say if he was returning to London?”
“He didn’t say anything,” said the girl. “But he can’t get back to London tonight from here. The last train has gone.”
I thanked her and let the subject drop. There was nothing more to be got out of her, and it seemed to me that she was already looking at me a little curiously. What had happened was clear. After laying me out he had calmly packed his kit and walked out of the hotel. And we were none of us any nearer knowing what he looked like than we were before. That was the sickening part of it. But I’d got the plan, and that was worth half a dozen stiff necks. I sat down in a secluded spot and ordered the largest whisky and the smallest soda that the hotel could produce. Then I pulled the precious piece of parchment out of my pocket and proceeded to examine it.
The plan itself was dated MLXXXII, which I calculated as 1532. And though my history was extremely rusty, I worked that date out as being in the reign of Henry the Eighth. It showed the original house of Temple Tower, though, of course, not under that name, and the guarding wall. It also showed another building situated about a hundred yards from the house, which I assumed must have been the now non-existent chapel. Connecting the two buildings from outside wall to outside wall, there ran the secret passage clearly marked on the plan. So that, at first sight, it appeared that once one was inside the grounds, with a tape measure, the entrance to the passage would be easy to locate.
“Good Lord! Darrell, where did you get that?”
I glanced up quickly, to find John James regarding me in amazement.
“Hullo!” I said. “Here’s your bally old plan.”
“So I see,” he cried. “I didn’t think it was a copy of the Pink ’Un. But how did you get it?”
“Sit down,” I remarked, “and order the necessary. I could do with another. And I will tell you the doings.”
“What’s stung your face, laddie?” he said. “It looks kind of fixed in position.”
“It is,’’ I answered. “And it’s all part of the doings.”
He sat down, and I told him briefly what had happened.
“Well, I’m damned,” he muttered, when I’d finished. “He’s a cool customer. However, let’s get back to the old plan. Turn it over, and we’ll see what is on the other side.”
The writing was crabbed and old-fashioned, and being in pencil, the words were none too easy to decipher. But at last we managed to make them out.
“When the tower and eastern turret come in a line, a tree is found.
Thirty long paces north, and in the ground
The answer lies. But should you hear the sound
Of turning wheels – beware.”
“Seems helpful,” he murmured. “The only drawback is that we’ve got to get inside the grounds to make use of it. Moreover, we’ve got to get in by day.”
For a moment or two I did not get his meaning.
“At night we probably shouldn’t be able to see the bally turret,” he explained.
“But look here,” I said, “this bit of doggerel is only a repetition of the information in the plan. There’s the passage clearly marked.”
He shook his head.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he answered positively. “The plan only shows the spot where the passage passed underneath the old outside wall. The actual entrance was somewhere inside the chapel, just as the entrance the other end is somewhere inside Temple Tower.”
“Then it seems to me,” I remarked, “that I’ve got a stiff neck for nothing. For I’m darned if I can see how we’re going to get into the place by day.”
“It’s just possible that the girl might be able to help us there,” he said thoughtfully. “Scott’s girl, I mean. She’ll have to go back for her kit, and then she ought to have no difficulty in spotting the tree, and marking it for us somehow. Anyway,” he continued after a pause, “what do we do now, sergeant-major? There doesn’t seem much good our sitting on here.”
“Let’s give it a little longer,’’ I said. “I feel there is a bare possibility of our friend returning to find this. And it would be a pity to miss the blighter.”
“Right ho!” he agreed. “As long as you like as far as I’m concerned. But my own opinion is that he’s not
going to come back for that. Why should he? He’s read the verse at the back, and it’s not difficult to remember. So that the plan is of no more use to him now, any more than it is to us.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” I said. “Let’s give it ten minutes or so, and then we’ll push back for dinner.”
I replaced the plan in my pocket, and lit a cigarette, whilst he got up.
“I’ll wander down to the station,” he said, “and get an evening paper. Then, if you’re ready, we’ll toddle when I get back.”
He strolled out, leaving me to finish my drink. The lounge was empty, and the soft evening light slanting through the old-fashioned windows gave it a particularly peaceful aspect. Then four men, two of whom I recognised as golfers of Walker Cup repute, came in talking shop. And I wondered idly what they would think if I butted into their conversation.
“Excuse me,” I might say, “interrupting your dissertation on putting, but have you seen a masked hunchback lying about anywhere? Because I’ve just been very nearly strangled by one.”
I began to chuckle inwardly as I imagined their expressions. And yet it was true, damn it, it was true. It wasn’t a dream, and it wasn’t an attack of delirium tremens. Then the clergyman came in, with the two elderly ladies in tow, and one of the golfers, who had abandoned his hobby for the latest from the Stock Exchange, lowered his voice discreetly.
I lit another cigarette and wondered if by any chance le Bossu would return. Probably John James was right, and he wouldn’t. And even if he did, unless he actually walked into Number 19, how should I know him? I glanced upstairs once again, and as I did so I suddenly remembered that strange drumming noise that I had heard before le Bossu attacked me. It had come from Number 18, the Vandalis’ room, and I began wondering what had caused it. It had been such a peculiar noise, unlike anything that I could recall having heard before. It had sounded almost as if someone was knocking on the wall with a mallet.
Could it have been a signal of some sort? If so, it must have been intended for le Bossu himself, and that proved at once that I was wrong, and the three of them were in collusion. But then, if that were the case, why bother to signal, when all that was necessary was to walk into the room and talk?
After a while I gave it up: like so many other things in this extraordinary affair, there seemed to be a dozen different possibilities. Presumably, in time, we should arrive at some result, but at the moment I felt I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
The door swung open, and I looked up hoping it was John James. I was beginning to agree with him that there was but little object in remaining any longer. But it proved to be the Inspector, and with him a shrewd-looking red-haired young man with journalist written all over him, who paused the instant he saw me, and then came over and spoke.
“Good evening, Mr Darrell,” he said. “You’ve forgotten me: on the Folkestone Courier. You were good enough to give me an interview when you were playing for Middlesex in the Canterbury Cricket Week two years ago. Extraordinary affair this, isn’t it?’’
“Very,” I agreed. “What did you find out, Inspector? You were just going to Temple Tower when you left us this morning.”
“Ah! Of course,” he said, “you were with Captain Drummond. Just for the moment I did not recognise you. Well, sir, you’ll understand that I can’t say much. Though, to tell you the truth,” he added ruefully, “I haven’t got much to say. I’m defeated – for the moment only, of course.”
“Quite,” I agreed gravely. “You found out nothing from Mr Granger himself?”
“Practically nothing,” he admitted. “It took me the best part of half an hour to force my way in. I rang the bell again and again, and nothing happened. Finally a woman came to the gate, and I told her that unless she opened it I would have it broken down: that a murder had been committed in the grounds, and that by law I must investigate. As soon as I said that she turned as white as a sheet, and opened the gate.
“‘A murder!’ she stammered. ‘Who’s been murdered?’
“Now, she wasn’t lying: I have enough knowledge of human nature to know that. She knew nothing about it: of that I am convinced. She shut the gate and bolted it: then she followed behind me. And when we came to the body she let out a scream and nearly fainted. I don’t blame her, for the dead man was her husband. He was strangled just like the other, and he was not a pretty sight.
“However, to cut a long story short, I left her weeping and moaning and made tracks for the house and Mr Granger. It took me the best part of another half hour to get in there: he kept peering at me through a hole in the door. Finally, he opened it, and then bolted it again as soon as I was in.
“‘What do you want?’ he said in a whining sort of voice.
“I told him, and I’ll eat my hat if he wasn’t as surprised as the woman.
“‘Two,’ he kept on croaking. ‘Two men killed! Gaspard – and who was the other? Who was the other?’
“He clawed at my arm, as I described the other, and a look of relief came over his face.
“‘That’s one of them, at any rate,’ he muttered.
“‘Look here,’ I said sternly, ‘there’s more in this than meets the eye, Mr Granger. And you know more about it than you are telling me. How comes it that these two men are strangled, one inside your grounds and one just outside? Somebody must have done it: do you know who?’
“But he wouldn’t say any more: just shut up like an oyster.
“‘You’ll be subpoenaed for the inquest,’ I warned him. ‘And then you’ll be on oath, don’t forget. Someone was in your grounds last night, and that someone did the murders. Moreover, I believe you know who that someone was!’
“But he just went on muttering and mumbling to himself, and finally I left him. There wasn’t anything more to be got out of him for the moment: the man seemed half crazy to me. But we’ll make him speak at the inquest.”
“Did you go and see Spragge?” I asked as the Inspector paused.
“I did – later,” he answered. “And I did not get much out of him. He identified the body of the man in the wood as the man who had been staying with him. And all he could tell me was that yesterday, about six o’clock, a note was delivered at his farm by a small boy for the lodger – a note which threw him into a terrible state of agitation. He says he went out about eight-thirty and that is the last he’s seen of him.”
“Very strange,” said the red-haired young man. “But good copy. Dead dog: two men strangled – one inside, one out. Very strange. I suppose you are absolutely certain it couldn’t have been this man Granger himself?”
“Absolutely,” said the Inspector. “He hasn’t got the strength.”
“Then – who did it?” demanded the journalist. “That is the point.”
“Precisely,” I mildly remarked, “that is the point.”
“Has the doctor decided which was killed first?” asked the journalist.
“The one outside,” said the Inspector. “Two or three hours before the other.”
“Good!” cried the other. “Then we arrive at this conclusion, anyway.”
He talked on: he was the type of man who would talk on forever and ever, but I hardly heard what he was saying. It seemed almost impossible to realise that I could, in a sentence, explain to them the whole baffling mystery. And not for the first time did the worrying thought return to me: were we justified in withholding our information? True, I saw the difficulties that confronted us: what were we to say without incriminating ourselves? Still, the thought kept coming back, and try as I would, I could not quite pacify my conscience.
I glanced round the hall. The four golfers had risen, and I watched them idly as they reached the top of the stairs and stood for a moment laughing and talking. They moved aside to let a maid, with a can of hot water in her hand, pass them, and I remember asking myself if it were po
ssible to imagine a more prosaic scene. The quiet English inn – the routine unvaried for years. And I remember my thoughts because of the sudden amazing change. Tranquillity, order, peace – and then, in a second, a screaming, hysterical girl standing in the open doorway of Number 18, while the hot water dripped from the overturned can into the hall below.
For a second or two no one moved: the thing was so utterly unexpected as to be paralysing. The golfers, with their mouths open, stared at her dazedly: so did we. Then, simultaneously, the power of action returned to all of us. I dashed upstairs behind the Inspector and the journalist, a thousand wild thoughts in my head. But the wildest of those thoughts had not prepared me for the ghastly sight that met my eyes as we entered the room.
Hanging to one of the old oak beams was Vandali. A glance at his purple, swollen face was sufficient: the man was dead. His body sagged grotesquely, almost touching the wall that separated the room from Number 19. And with a sick sort of feeling, I realised that the strange drumming noise I had heard had been made by the poor devil’s heels as he died. At his feet lay an overturned chair; evidently he had stood on it, and then kicked it away from underneath him. I heard the others talking in low tones: caught snatches of what they were saying: “Poor devil,” “Hanged himself,” “Where is the woman?”: the disjointed phrases seemed to come from a long way off, and after a time I escaped downstairs.
Why had Vandali hanged himself? The question hammered at my brain. True, I knew nothing about the man: all that I could say was that I had seen him a couple of hours previously apparently quite happy and contented. What on earth had happened to make him commit suicide?
Then another thought struck me. When Madame Vandali left me she had gone upstairs. At the utmost, only a quarter of an hour had elapsed before I went to le Bossu’s room. Therefore, whatever had caused the tragedy must have taken place during that quarter of an hour, because it was impossible to think that she could have found him hanging and said nothing about it. Had they had some terrible quarrel, as a result of which she had left him and he had then committed suicide?