The Dream of X and Other Fantastic Visions

by William Hope Hodgson; Douglas A. Anderson

  “You’re a bit of a fool, Sandy, not to think before you speak; though I’m doubtin’ then if ye’d ever speak at all!” said Parson Guyles, as he took his own pair from Sandy Mech. “First, ha’ anyone here, or even you two ever seen my natcheral face? Don’t the people round here know me as Andrew Magee! And ha’ ye no’ brains to see it’s Andrew Magee they’ll look for! Don’t they know I’m the one that took on the basement we’ve driven the tunnel from; not to mention the officer that came in the other night, and made belief he wanted a re-fill! Lord, I wonder if he did come in honest, or to pry?”

  “What!” said the two others; both startled.

  The Parson explained.

  “I said nothing to the two o’ ye,” he continued. “What was the use of givin’ you the jumps when the work had to be done. And anyway, I never notioned till to-night that he came in on the sneak; but I’m wondering now. I’ve got the feel in ma blood to-night that maybe yon man had designs. I’ll say na mair. But if you’re wantin’ to go now, why I’ll never stop ye.”

  “Now!” said both men, as one.

  “Why you old—” began Sandy Mech.

  “Cut it out, laddies,” said Parson Guyles, cheerfully. “I’m a short tempered man, as ye ken” (the Parson grew more Scottish, as he indulged his vein). “An hour mair, if ye’ve the pluck o’ white mice, an’ ye’re rich for all ye’r sinful evil lives; not but ye’ll both be as poor as foolish babes a month hence. There’s John Vardon now, the lusts o’ the flesh, John Vardon, are the ruination of ye. The——”

  “Good Lord! he’s going to preach!” said Sandy Mech. “Stow it, Parson. We’re with you into hell and out again. ’Ere’s them dividers.”

  The Parson took them from him, without a word; and Sandy never knew how near he was to Eternity in that one instant; for the dividers were of steel, and heavy, and in every way adequate for so unpleasant a purpose. But John Vardon saw, and understood.

  “Sandy!” he said, “shut your silly mouth. The Parson is right. We’re both a pair of fools. . . . I tell you what, Parson, if I get the whack I’m looking for out of this, I’ll cut the crook, and go away somewhere and live straight. I will, by the Lord, I will.”

  Parson Guyles’ eyes gleamed with a strange and wonderful light.

  “God grant it, lad,” he said, with a sudden uncovering of the hidden cravings of his nature. “I wad die easier to think there had some good come out o’ my sinfu’ life. I haud ye to ye’r word, John Vardon, on the honour of all that you once were.”

  “I give you my word, Parson,” said John Vardon, with perfect sincerity. “I’ve been a fool once; but if this comes right and we get what you think is coming to us, I’ll leave England this week—”

  “Not you, John!” interrupted Mech. “I’ve felt that way, when I first started in the perfession. It’s just nerves; not funk, mind you, John; but nerves. It’ll go when you handle your share of the oof.”

  “Sandy Mech,” said Parson Guyles, in a fierce but quiet voice, “say one word mair of your de’il’s talk, an’ I’ll wring your neck, as Samuel hewed Agag in pieces before the Lord.”

  And Mech, impudent, sturdy irresponsible Sandy Mech, held his tongue; for even he knew better than to cross the Parson further in that mood. But John Vardon said nothing. He fidgeted a moment or two with his gloves; and seemed as if he might be vaguely ashamed because the better side of him had so unexpectedly answered to the bizarre cry of the “lost shepherd” (bizarre because of its very sincerity) to a lost sheep.

  “Come in, both of you, an’ stan’ by the wall, out o’ my way,” said the Parson.

  The strong-room was different from any that John Vardon had seen, in his brief experience of the Profession; and even Sandy Mech had never seen the same inner arrangements; for the prodigious wealth was simply and neatly packed into steel trays, arranged along the floor in rows, with nothing between it and their hands, but the low steel-latticed covers, locked down with invisible locks to the floor.

  Overhead, burned an electric light, and showed plainly the notes, bonds, or gold, as the case might be, in their respective numbered trays. It seemed to the two onlookers that they had nothing to do but burst the thin steel lattice-work with a crowbar, and fill their bags; but the Parson’s casual remarks, showed just why the money was so stored, and the reasoning upon which it was considered safe:—

  “Yon’s a pretty arrangement,” he said, as he spread out the plan of the old wiring, on the floor of the strong-room. “That’s McLegg’s invention—the idea of the ‘meat-covers.’ It’s good points, as ye’ll see. You’ll perceive that a bank offecial can assure himself that things is right, without having to unlock aught; at the same time there can be na temptation to casual, honest-men’s pickin’ an’ stealin’, as you might say, on the part of any lesser offecials that ha’ their occasional duties in here. . . . That was McLegg’s way of looking at it. A countryman of mine, laddies, and clever; for the meat-covers are apt to trick the unwary. Henry Gably, a fair safe-blower too, was put away for a ten year spell only last month, through that same invention. He’d a notion to ha’ the contents of the big Utrecht Bank, out Tallwar way. He got in through the roof; quieted the watchmen, an’ made na bones about it, but just dynamited a breach clean through the wall o’ the gold room. By the de’il’s own luck, he wasna killed nor heard; but they had this same idea o’ McLegg’s inside the room, an’ he thought, foolish lad, he’d naught to do, but rip the meat-covers open, an’ fill his bags.

  “Well, before he’d ripped off the second, the officers were mobilising, as you might say, from all round the district; for you can’t touch these little grids, unless ye know the co-ordination of the wiring, without ringing up the police; and that’s just the tricksiness of the notion; for they tempt a man to be done wi’ fine work, and just rip them open.”

  Parson Guyles took the long dividers, and “set” them carefully; then he placed one point of the instrument right into the angle of the West corner of the room, and drew a segment of a circle across the corner, from wall to wall, at full radius. He did the same in the East corner; then, at each place where the segments of the circles touched the walls, he pressed a sprig into the soft rubber tiling which covered the floor. From the sprigs, he stretched two thin lines, across the room, between the rows of cages; then, with his dividers, he straddled along each of the lines, making a chalk mark at each place where the points touched.

  With a knife, he cut a square clean out of the rubber tiling, round each of the chalk marks. He took a case of marvellously finished tools from his pocket, also a large horseshoe-magnet. He pressed the horseshoe-magnet against the steel floor; and lifted out of its slot in the floor, a beautifully fitting “invisible” metal plate.

  “I thought so,” said Parson Guyles, as he examined the terminals of the wiring, which had been so cunningly hidden under the metal cover. He went round to each of the openings in the rubber, and did the same; then he took a pair of pliers from his case, and began work upon the wiring.

  “I darena cut them; for they run the main through this wiring at nights,” he explained. “And the night-lights upstairs would fluff out, laddies, if I were to cut, and that would trouble the officer outside. Aye! it’s a bonnie brain that thought this out.”

  He worked at the terminals for half an hour, crossing from opening to opening.

  “I ha’ small doubts but I ha’ replaced the old coordination,” he said, at last, standing up and stretching himself.

  There were thirteen of the flat lattice cages on the floor of the room, and Parson Guyles pulled out his purse. He opened it, and took from it a bunch of minute slips of bright metal, curiously notched.

  “I made these from rubbings of the firm’s triplicates, when I took the chart-tracings,” he said. “The whole thirteen keys are here. Aye! I put in a deal of labour to the success of this night’s work!”

  “You’re a holy wonder, Parson!” said Sandy Mech, from where he stood, waiting by the wall. “Every man to his own
job. I reckon Providence meant you for a safe-buster, Parson.”

  John Vardon nudged the enthusiastic “spade and shovel” man, to be silent; but the Parson took no bitter offence.

  “The ways o’ the A’michty are strange an’ wonderful, Sandy,” he said, with a kind of sadness in his voice. “I ha’ foughten oft against my weakness; but the natcheral evil that is in me, an’ the bitterness o’ man in general, ha’ turned my feet always into the downward path. . . .” He paused, examining the keys thoughtfully. “But the desire to do battle wi’ the evil that is in me, dies not, laddie, an’ maybe one day I shall triumph, an’ live the life I wad best like. Oh, aye, the life I wad best like. Aye me ! . . . Now,” he continued, changing suddenly, “by the old co-ordination, that I trust I ha’ replaced truly, the covers can only be unlocked in the following way:—To open Number 1, I must unlock Number 10 and Number 3; then return to Number 1 and lift it open; but if I attempt to open either 10 or 3, after I’ve unlocked them, it sets off the alarrum; also one or two other things, that maybe I’ll not tell ye now, laddies. An’ a likewise reasoning applies to all.”

  He studied some notes in his pocket book. “The numbers for unlocking the covers are according to the following:—

  “Unlocking 10 and 3 unlocks 1.

  “ 1”7”2.

  “ 9” 8”3.

  “ 6”3”4.

  “13”12 ”5.

  “13” 2 ”6.

  “4”11”7.

  “5”12 ”8.

  “10”2 ”9.

  “12”11”10.

  “9”6”11.

  “8”2”12.

  “5”7”13.

  “Now then, we’ll make a test o’ our de’il’s luck that I could near pray the A’michty shall abide with us this night; for then, John Vardon, you shall go free of the chains, and I shall have vengeance upon mine enemy.”

  He walked quietly across to the tenth cage, and inserted one of the notched slips of metal. It turned easily, without a sound.

  “That’s workmanship,” said the Parson, with momentary professional pride. “Good work tells.” He walked over to Number 3, and the key he had made for it, fitted equally well.

  “Now, for the test,” he said, and stepped across to Number 1.

  Sandy Mech’s naturally ruddy face whitened perceptibly, and John Vardon stirred uneasily, where he stood beside Mech; but only an added touch of grimness in the lines of Parson Guyles’ mouth, showed that he also felt the strain of that supreme moment.

  The Parson stooped and took hold of the handle of the latticed steel cover, Number 1. He lifted gently, and the cover hinged backward sweetly and noiselessly.

  “God be thankit! God be thankit!” he muttered, in a subdued outburst of relief. He stood up and beckoned to where Sandy Mech and John Vardon had leant forward simultaneously from the wall. Sandy Mech’s eyes burned and glowed with the true money-greed, at the sight of the uncovered thousands in coined gold, waiting only to be lifted out; but John Vardon’s eyes were eager in another way. He saw there his suddenly desired freedom from the Supreme Failure that, in his morally slackened condition, he had begun to look upon as inevitably his fate. His eyes were intense with anxiety more than desire.

  The Parson, on his part, had a strange mixture of triumph and a newly born anxiety in his expression; but dominating all, in that instant, was simple thankfulness and, strangely incongruous as it must seem, a subtle consciousness of holier thoughts. Abruptly, he said:—

  “John Vardon, come and take the freedom I ha’ to offer ye. Fetch the bags.”

  As Sandy Mech and John Vardon crept down the tunnel, for the bags, the Parson rapidly unlocked 1 and 7, 9 and 8, 6 and 3, 13 and 12. 13 and 12 opened a little less easily, and the Parson stood up to examine the key. He waved a hastening hand as Vardon and Mech re-appeared with four small portmanteau-like bags and a couple of grip-sacks.

  “Haste ye,” he said. “Maybe, out o’ evil shall come good; but I misdoubt the soundness o’ it. Yet the A’michty works in various ways His Wonders to pairform— Whist! What waur that?”

  In the instant that followed, they all heard it, like a knell upon their varied hopes and longings:—the sound of an alarm gong, rattling hideously in the night; the noise coming plainly down the cleverly hidden ventilation shafts. In the same instant, there came a sudden, momentary, tremendous bluish glare of light in the room, that made the interior of the strong room brighter than any day that ever shone.

  “We’re done!” shouted Sandy Mech, in a positive screetch. “We’re found out! Scoot!”

  The Parson whipped a heavy revolver out of his pocket.

  “A cool head, ma laddie, or I’ll drop ye here an’ now,” he said calmly. “John Vardon, begin to stow the gold in the bags. Sandy, lad, you hark to me. The police will be here, inside of ten minutes. What’s gone wrong, I do not just know; but maybe I made some wee slip in the re-wiring. Now, hark ye; after the police are here, they can never, come at us, save through the tunnel that no one but our three selves ken of, inside of a lang half hour. They’ve to bring the three separate offecials that hold the three emergency keys, that are never used except in an emergency like the present. I ha’ it all worked out, down to the time it will take them to get here, even if they dress in the taxi. An’ it cannot take less than seven and thirty minutes from this moment, before yon door is opened. By then, we shall ha’ all the gold we need, an’ we’ll be lang gone away through the tunnel, and out by the back passage, and away in the car of our friend, John Vardon. Now, are ye quit of your panic, laddie; for I’ve na more time to waste on ye?”

  Sandy Mech had got hold of himself, as he realised that there was not only time to achieve the gold, but that an effectual line of retreat was ready prepared; and he nodded back, rather shame-facedly, at the Parson.

  “You’re boss, Parson,” he said. “I’m all right now.”

  “That’s a goodish thing,” said Parson Guyles. “A very goodish thing. Get packing the gold, smart now.” He opened the remaining cages, with a perfectly controlled nerve.

  “Surely hath mine enemy been delivered into mine hand!” he muttered; and picking up one of the gripsacks, began to fill it rapidly with bonds.

  “Nay!” he said, catching John Vardon’s glance. “Just to burn, laddie, and so to repay an eye for an eye. I will take a hand with the siller in a moment.”

  As each of the diminutive, strongly-built portmanteaux were filled with the solid little bags of gold coin, Parson Guyles locked and strapped them carefully, his amazing coolness acting on the others in a nerve-steadying way; so that they worked with a swiftness and method that had in it no signs of the panic, that might have been expected in three burglars who knew that, already, the police were drawing a cordon round the very building which they were robbing.

  As the Parson was strapping the fourth portmanteau, there came suddenly, voices, seeming far away and muffled:—

  “The door’s not touched.” . . . “Where are they?” . . . “Inside . . .” “They’ve tunnelled in. . . .” And then a silence, during which there were several soft thuds on the door.

  “Not a sound, either of ye!” whispered Parson Guyles. “Keep them guessing, laddies. Keep them guessing. The longer the better!”

  “. . . There’s no one inside!” came one of the muffled voices. “The door’s not touched; and they can’t have tunnelled in, for this room’s got an Anson’s patent ‘warning’ incorporated in the walls. It’s absolutely impossible to get in that way without ringing us. And it would take them a week after that to cut through.”

  Parson Guyles smiled, grimly, inside the room.

  “The emergency keys will be here in less than half an hour,” continued the voice, “and then we can get in. I expect some of the electrical gear has fused, or something. Anyway, it’s certain there’s nothing to bother about.”

  “That’s good for us!” said Parson Guyles, still in a whisper. “Now
get the bags out. And never a sound, laddies. If they knew we were here, they’d be sure we’d tunnelled, and they would ha’ a cordon round all the near-bye buildings, and make immediate investigation of all likely basements and cellars.”

  He lifted the four, enormously heavy, small portmanteaux, one after the other into the tunnel, and John Vardon and Sandy Mech began to creep with them, with infinite difficulty, along to the cellar. They found it easiest to take only one portmanteau at a time—one of them creeping on hands and knees, with the bag on his back, and the other steadying it from rolling off.

  This method required four journeys to get the portmanteaux into the cellar; and then the two returned hurriedly for the grip-sacks, one of which was filled with notes and the other with bonds.

  “Darn silliness! I call it,” said Sandy Mech, as he crept behind John Vardon. “You can’t do nothin’ with bonds; nor no wise pup ever messes with notes. They’re rotten dangerous.”

  “Drop it!” said John Vardon. “The Boss knows what he’s doing. He’s a wonderful man. Come on, and get it done.”

  “I’m with you,” said Mech, honestly. “ ’E’s a bloomin’ wonder; but I never ’ad no use for paper trash.”

  They reached the strong-room again; and, silently, Parson Guyles passed out the two grip-sacks, stuffed with paper of incredible value.

  “I’ll be with ye in a moment,” said the Parson. “Go ahead.”

  Sandy Mech led the way back along the tunnel to the cellar. He had the bigger of the two grip-sacks, which, though quite light, was difficult to handle, owing to its size and the way in which it kept catching the inequalities of the walls and roof of the narrow drift.

  “Cuss the thing! Cuss it! Cuss it!” he exclaimed, suddenly, as the sack caught for the tenth time on a snag in the roof.

  John Vardon raised his head, as he crept some feet behind Mech, to see what was wrong. He had lit the tunnel in three places with incandescent lights, that made it tolerably bright. He saw something that made him sicken; for the roof, only partly and hastily lined, was sagging perceptibly, and Sandy Mech’s sack was caught by some protruding fragment of the down-sagging roof.