Island of Terror

by Sapper

  “Am I sure? Of course I’m sure.”

  He took a long gulp of water from the glass that a constable had brought.

  “If you’d got a head like hell with the lid off, and a mouth like a refuse heap, you’d be sure.”

  “I’m not denying,” said the sergeant, “that I had some suspicions of it myself. At the same time nothing seemed to have been taken from you. We have” – he consulted a piece of paper he took out of his pocket – “a gold watch, a gold and platinum cigarette-case, and twenty-six pounds, five shillings, and four pence in cash. Now, sir, you say you were drugged. Who by, and where?”

  “I can’t tell you the name of the gentleman,” said Jim grimly, “though I propose to find it out at the earliest possible moment. Nor can I tell you the exact locality. The nearest I can get to that is that it was somewhere in Hampstead.”

  “Hampstead!” ejaculated the sergeant. “Hampstead!”

  “Why not?” said Jim irritably.

  “Well, you know where you are now, don’t you?”

  “Not an earthly. How the devil should I?”

  “You are in Streatham, sir. You were found on Streatham Common by the policeman on duty at seven o’clock this morning.”

  “What is the time now?” demanded Jim.

  “Just after half-past three. You’ve been insensible for nearly eight hours.”

  For a time Jim stared at the officer without replying. His brain was beginning to work again normally and it was evident that he must do some pretty quick thinking. What had happened was, up to a point, clear. Having drugged him, they had put him in a car and dropped him as far as possible from the house where the thing had taken place. The two men he had seen just before he finally lost consciousness must have done it. But the immediate point to be decided was the important one. Should he tell the sergeant the whole story or should he not?

  Reduced to the baldest terms the story sounded a bit thin. In a house – name unknown, situated in a road – name also unknown, somewhere in Hampstead he had found a dead man. He had then been attacked by a blind dwarf and doped. If he told it and stuck to it the police would be forced to investigate it which would mean publicity. And he did not want publicity. He was very angry, and his definite intention was to deal with the matter himself. At the same time he realised that he was now in England, and that if he said nothing about the murder he was – if the facts came out – bringing himself quite definitely within the scope of the law as being an accessory to the crime. What, then, was to be done? The sergeant was beginning to look suspicious at his silence, and something had to be said. He decided to compromise.

  “Do you people know of a private gambling den in Hampstead?” he asked.

  “We certainly shouldn’t know it here, sir, and I can’t tell you what information they have up there. Whereabouts in Hampstead?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jim. “I could probably identify the road, but with regard to the house I’m not so sure.”

  “Then it was the first time you’d been there?”

  “It was.”

  “But if you don’t know the house or the road how did you get in?”

  “I was taken there by a man I met,” said Jim. “He was a stranger to me, but he seemed a decent sort of fellow.”

  “Surely you know his name, sir?”

  “Sorry, sergeant: I’m afraid I don’t. I like a gamble, and he assured me this place was run on the straight. It wasn’t: and that’s all there is to it. I started throwing my weight about, and got my liquor doped for my pains.”

  “You’d know this man again if you saw him?”

  “If I saw him – certainly,” agreed Jim. “And you can take it from me I propose to look for him.”

  The sergeant shook his head disapprovingly.

  “Well, sir, all I can say is that it serves you right. A gentleman of your age ought to know better than to run your head into a fool trap like that.”

  “Exactly, sergeant,” said Jim mildly.

  “I’ll get on the phone to Hampstead and find out if they know anything, but unless you can be a bit more explicit it looks pretty hopeless.”

  “Would you at the same time, sergeant, get on to 3B Half Moon Street – Grosvenor 3X21 – and tell my man Brooke to bring my clothes here at once. I don’t want to drive through London in this rig. By the way,” he added with a grin, “am I going to be charged with being drunk and disorderly or anything?”

  “We’ll let you off this time,” said the other. “But if you take my advice you’ll steer clear of that sort of thing in future.”

  The worthy officer departed closing the door, and Jim sat down on the bed. Save for a stiff neck, and a splitting headache he felt none the worse for the performance. At the small cost of appearing a fool in the sergeant’s eyes he had accounted for his condition, and now he was left as a free agent to carry things on in his own way.

  To say that he was angry would be to express it mildly. Jim Maitland was furious. That he should have been outed in Hampstead of all places, got the better of, fooled completely, made him wild. But since he never made the mistake of belittling an adversary he admitted to himself that no matter where it was, the blind man, given the tactical advantage he had possessed last night, would always do him in. Therefore he must never be allowed to obtain such a position again.

  It was the question of the other two that worried him. It was possible but not probable that he might recognise their voices if he heard them again, but that was all. Outside it had been too dark to see their faces: inside he had been too far gone to notice anything except that two men were there. They might not even have been the same. But the annoying fact remained that two of the opponents knew him by sight, whereas he did not know them. Which started him at a grave disadvantage.

  His property had been returned to him and he lit a cigarette. Percy would be able to tell him the name of the road, and he felt fairly confident that he could spot the house again. But even if he did, was it going to do any good? Was there anything further to be found out there? It would please him immensely to slog the blind man good and hearty, but it would not advance things much if he did. That they had left the body there was most improbable: if not, what had they done with it?

  He opened the door, and hailed the sergeant.

  “Got an evening paper there by any chance?” he cried.

  An Evening News was forthcoming, and he scanned the headlines. There was no mention of the discovery of any dead body. To question the man was obviously absurd, so he returned it with a word of thanks.

  “Hampstead knows nothing about any gambling den, sir,” remarked the officer. “They’d be glad of any information you can give them. And your man is coming along at once with your clothes.”

  Jim returned to his cell and lit another cigarette. A faint smile flickered round his lips as he pictured Brooke’s face on finding him in his present position. Then he grew serious again: now that he had definitely committed himself by his story to the sergeant he began to doubt whether he had been wise. After all, the probability of there being anything further in it than a mere gambling quarrel was small. And if that was all, he had played straight into the murderer’s hands. It was impossible for him to alter his story now.

  “Your clothes, sir.”

  He looked up: Brooke, a suitcase in his hand, was standing stiffly in the doorway with an expression worthy of an early Christian martyr.

  “And this note, sir, was left by hand this morning.”

  He took the letter and glanced at it: the writing was unfamiliar. Inside was a half sheet of paper, on which some words were written in block capitals.

  LAST NIGHT YOU DREAMED: TODAY YOU AWOKE. SHOULD YOU DREAM AGAIN YOU MAY NOT BE SO FORTUNATE.

  “Who left this?” said Jim curtly.

  “A messenger boy, sir. About ten o’clock this morning.”

  “Is there any letter in my evening coat, Brooke?”

  “Only this, sir.”

  It was an invitation to a pu
blic dinner addressed to him at Half Moon Street, which he had slipped into his pocket meaning to send a reply from his club. So that was how they had traced him. Assuredly the dice were loaded pretty heavily in their favour. They knew him by sight: they knew his name: they knew his address. But his face was quite impassive as he continued dressing. The bigger the odds, the better the sport. Moreover, the other side had committed, had they but known it, the one irreparable error. For a threat to Jim Maitland was even as a strawberry ice is to a greedy child.

  CHAPTER 3

  After a further admonition from the sergeant to be careful of the company he kept in future they parted on excellent terms. The necessity for a long drink and a strong drink was urgent: unfortunately a misguided legislation decreed that such a thing could not be at that hour. So sending Brooke on in the taxi he went for the most important thing – a shave.

  The effects of the drug had very nearly worn off, and the need for formulating some plan of campaign was evident. And the first thing to do was to put himself in the enemy’s position. Their assumption, it seemed to him, would be that he would most certainly tell the police. It would be the obvious thing that ninety-nine men out of a hundred would do in similar circumstances. In fact he would have done it himself but for the extraordinary coincidence of his previous conversation with the girl – a conversation about which they could know nothing. Taking that as a basis – what next? They would anticipate a visit of inspection from the police very shortly after he recovered consciousness. They could not know that he was blissfully ignorant even of the name of the road.

  The strong probability therefore was that by now all traces of their occupation of the house would have disappeared. They had no time to lose: even the roulette and baccarat tables would involve them in unpleasant notoriety if discovered by the authorities. The point would have to be confirmed, of course, but it seemed to him that that was the obvious starting-point from which to begin. And if so, the problem became a simple one to propound, but a difficult one to solve. How was he to get in touch with them again?

  The crude and stupid threat had presumably been written on the assumption that he would not receive it until after he had communicated with the police, and led them, apparently, to a mare’s nest. They hoped that it would catch him in a mood of irritation and annoyance at having not only been made a fool of himself, but also for having made a fool of the police. And it was not hard to imagine what the police would have said if he had taken them to an empty and harmless house, on the plea that it was a gambling den where a man had been murdered. In fact with some men the threat might have fulfilled its object, and made them drop the whole thing. That he was not in that category was neither here nor there. Was it a sound move to let them think that he was?

  He told the barber to give him a couple of hot towels, and under their soothing influence he followed up that line of thought. They would soon find out that he had not told the police: what would they deduce from that? Surely it would be confirmatory evidence that he was only too anxious to let the matter drop altogether. They might think he was a business man unwilling to be mixed up in any scandal. And the more he sized up the situation, the better it seemed to him to give them that impression.

  The only point against it was that if he left them alone, they would certainly do the same to him. The last thing they wanted was to be interfered with. Between them they would have to account for a murder, and even if they succeeded in bringing home the actual deed to the man called Ernesto, they would all be guilty of complicity. So what chance was there of getting any further with it, unless he carried the war into the enemy’s country?

  A big point, certainly – almost a vital one. To let the matter really drop was unthinkable, but what was he to do? At the moment he was at a hopeless disadvantage. If only, while apparently letting things go by the board, he could get hold of some pieces of evidence which would give him a clue as to their whereabouts. If only, unknown to them, he could start all square knowing them even as they knew him. He was under no delusions: it would be sheer luck if he did it. But Jim Maitland was a believer in luck, and it was a hopeful portent that as he entered his club the clock showed half-past five. No longer did the law interfere with the consumption of alcohol.

  The first person he ran into was Percy, who looked at him in some surprise.

  “By Jove! dear old lad,” he burbled, “you look a bit under the weather – what! The right eye resembles a poached egg: the general bearing hardly of that martial order which is the hall-mark of our family.”

  “Dry up,” said Jim. “It’s the result of that devastating performance of yours. Look here, young Percy, what is the name of the road in which that house is? Where you drove me last night.”

  “Haven’t an earthly, old fruit. I mean, who could be expected to know the name of a road in Hampstead?”

  “But you’ve often been there, you blithering ass.”

  “I absolutely agree, dear heart. Absolutely. Times and again, and then some. I could find my way there in the dark with my eyes shut, but I couldn’t tell you the name of the bally road to save my life.”

  Jim regarded him dispassionately.

  “Your claim to continual existence grows more microscopic daily,” he remarked at length. “However, it is you who will suffer. At eleven o’clock tonight you will call for me here in your car. You will then drive me to the scene of your ridiculous entertainment last night. After that you can go and play by yourself.”

  “But, my dear man,” spluttered Percy, “what the deuce do you want me to do that for? None of the birds will be there this evening.”

  “A fact for which one can but give pious thanks to high heaven,” said Jim, lighting a cigarette.

  “Then why do you want me to drive you there?” persisted his cousin.

  “So that I may mark it in my mind as a spot to avoid in the future,” said Jim.

  “Cut it out, old lad,” cried Percy. “Joking apart, what is the blinking game?”

  Jim Maitland stared at him thoughtfully. And after a while an idea, engendered perhaps by his conversation with Judy Draycott, began to take root in his mind. Here in the shape of his cousin was a test case. What lay behind that vacuous exterior? Supposing things did begin to move, how would Percy behave in a tight corner? And moved by a sudden impulse he signed to him to come closer.

  “I am about to order you a drink, young feller,” he said, “and while you put your nose in it I am going to tell you a little story. But before I begin I want your word of honour that what I say to you goes no further without my permission.”

  “You have it,” said Percy quietly.

  “After I left you last night, whilst strolling along to get the foul smell of those kippers out of my nostrils, I heard a revolver shot. It came from a house I was passing. Impelled by my usual curiosity I broke into the house, which I found to be a gambling den. Amongst other odds and ends I found a murdered man lying about: he’d been shot through the heart. Shortly afterwards I was doped, and I’ve spent today in Streatham police station.”

  “Go to blazes,” laughed his cousin. “If that’s your idea of a leg pull it is pretty poor, laddie.”

  “It happens to be the truth, Percy,” said Jim gravely. “Now listen to me.”

  Without embroidery he told his cousin the whole story, omitting only one point – his strong suspicion that the murdered man was Judy Draycott’s brother. That and all the implications that might follow with it, was not at the moment a thing he wanted to pass on to anyone. And by the time he had finished Percy’s eyes were nearly goggling out of his head.

  “But how perfectly priceless,” he spluttered ecstatically. “Of course, old lad, you can count me in. Your idea is to go and have another look at the house tonight. Do a bit of amateur detective work. And, by Jove! that reminds me. There is a gambling place up in those parts: I’ve heard of it myself. Bloke in the club here told me about it – Teddy d’Acres.”

  He hailed a passing waiter.

 
; “Is Lord d’Acres in the club?” he demanded.

  “His lordship is playing cards, sir,” said the man.

  “I’ll get hold of him, Jim,” cried Percy, getting up.

  “Not a word, don’t forget,” said the older man. “Just get the details of the place: nothing more.”

  “You leave it to me, laddie.”

  He rushed off to return in a couple of minutes with the information that Teddy was just finishing a rubber and would join them at once.

  “Tell him,” said Jim, “that I’m on the look out for a gamble, and want a straight place.”

  “It’s a pity,” opined his lordship, a few moments later, “that I didn’t meet you last night. I was playing myself and I could have taken you along. And tonight I’m afraid I’m booked up three deep.”

  “What’s the name of the house?” demanded Percy.

  “Damned if I know, old boy,” said the other. “It’s a number, I think. But the road is Oakleigh Avenue.”

  “That’s it,” cried Percy, turning to Jim, “I remember now. That’s where we met last night.”

  “As a matter of fact,” went on d’Acres, “it’s perhaps as well you weren’t there. A poor evening. We generally carry on till three or four, but this morning we broke up about one.”

  Jim looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Any particular reason?” he asked.

  “Bloke there half screwed, who was asking for trouble. Began swearing he’d been cheated, which was all tripe. I’ve been to the damned place for months, and it’s run absolutely square. Then he swore he’d get the police, which seemed to little Willie the moment to quit.”

  “Did he get the police?” asked Jim casually.

  “Ask me another,” said d’Acres. “I got to bed at a respectable hour for once.”

  “I wonder if he was the fellow I met at dinner,” continued Jim, catching Percy’s eye for a second. “Distinctly elevated even then, and asking everyone if they could tell him where to get a game. Big fellow and fat, with fair hair.”

  d’Acres shook his head.