Desperately tired and still racked by a blinding headache as he was, he began a laborious attempt to erect a solid platform below the window. Had he had a spade he might have accomplished the job by an hour's steady work, but he had no instrument of any kind, so was reduced to using his hands and feet. Going down on his knees he swept armfuls of flour forward, stood up to trample them flat, then repeated the process.
It proved a labour of Hercules. All the time he was moving the flour it billowed up in clouds about him, powdering his hair and eyebrows white, and stifling and blinding him so that every few minutes he was compelled to cease until the clouds had settled and he could get back his breath. For over two hours he stuck to this terrible task. By the end of that time he had succeeded in raising a short ramp a little over a foot, but it needed another six or eight inches for him to get a firm grasp on the window sill.
By then he was utterly exhausted and knew that even though his life depended on it he could do no more. His only hope now was that in the morning a workman to whom he could shout for help would come up on to the catwalk to do something to the machinery, or that by throwing something through the window he might attract attention to himself. Slumping down on the soft flour he fell into a deep sleep.
When he awoke he knew from the brighter light that filled the chamber that it was morning. The horrors of the past night flooded back into his mind, and it was only then he realized that someone was shouting at him. Staring up from where he lay he saw the figure of a man leaning over the rail of the catwalk. The mass of machinery filling most of the space in the top of the chamber made it semi-dark up there. Yet, even as a surge of hope that he was about to be rescued ran through him, that hope was killed. He could now make out the form of the man more clearly, and it was the giant Pedro.
'So you're still alive,' Pedro shouted down to him. 'Well, you won't be for long.'
Staggering to his feet, de Quesnoy shouted back. 'Get me out! I'll pay you anything you ask. I'm rich. The others needn't know. For God's sake get me out. What does it matter to you if I live or die? Don't throw away this chance never to have to work again. Save me and I'll hand over to you a fortune.'
But Pedro only gave a bellow of laughter, then walked back along the catwalk. Like the knell of doom for de Quesnoy, the door slammed behind him.
At the threat that he would not now remain alive for long, the Count recalled what had been said the night before about his being dead from suffocation within ten minutes, but that, should he not be, when they started to grind that would finish him. With renewed fears he stared upward. A moment later there came the sound of turning wheels and clanking machinery. The grinders had been set in motion.
From them a white mist floated down. It was composed of millions of tiny particles finer than any snow. Hastily de Quesnoy ploughed his way to the nearest corner where, not being directly under the grinder, the mist was slightly less dense. Pulling out his handkerchief, he tied it over his mouth and nose then, tearing off his jacket, he put that over his head and drew its skirts close about his shoulders. But even with such protection he knew that a soft-footed death was about to steal relentlessly upon him.
Unlike a sand-storm there was no rushing wind and sharp whipping of grains against everything they encountered. The flour descended in an even, semi-transparent cascade and in utter silence. But like sand raised by a desert whirlwind the particles penetrated every nook and cranny. Within a quarter of an hour at the most the handkerchief across the lower part of his face would become so thickly coated that it would no longer serve as a filter. Then, every breath he was forced to draw would be laden with those death-dealing particles. Another quarter of an hour of mounting agony and his lungs would cease to function. At last complete despair seized him.
But not for long. Suddenly a thought recurred to him that had crossed his mind the previous evening, when Sanchez had proposed to burn him alive in the furnace. If he could throw himself into a deep trance he might survive. Once he had succeeded in suspending his animation he would no longer need to breathe; so his lungs would remain static and uncloyed by the flour. Here, he had two of the requirements for such an operation - solitude and complete quiet in which to concentrate. The trance, too, need not be so deep as would have been required to render the body impervious to the pain of burning. Time was the third requirement; but if he concentrated to the utmost of his power, allowing no other thought to distract him even for a second, he should be able to get out of his body within ten minutes.
Lying down, with his coat still wrapped about his head, he tensed all his muscles three times, then relaxed completely. Breathing with the rhythm he had been taught, and not even flickering an eyelid, he remained absolutely still. Gradually his breathing grew fainter and at length it ceased. His spirit was now upon the astral plane and his body only an inanimate figure to which it could still give life by returning, but was for the time being attached only by a form of spiritual telephone wire known to occultists as the Silver Cord.
To the step he had taken there was a minor benefit attached in addition to the saving of his life. The body is like a battery that can be recharged with the electricity that gives it vitality only when the spirit is absent from it during a trance or sleep. Denied all sleep indefinitely it runs down and peters out. The deeper the sleep the more beneficial, and a trance being deeper than any sleep it was certain that his physical condition would be greatly improved on his return.
For several hours he remained scarcely conscious of his body; then he began to feel a growing urge to go back into it. Soon after he had done so he became aware that all his limbs were being pressed down by a quite considerable weight; then he realized that he must have been buried by the falling flour. His handkerchief was still over the lower part of his face and his jacket covering his head. Without removing them, he kicked out with hands and feet until he was sitting up with his head and shoulders well above the new flour level. A moment of listening assured him that the mill machinery was no longer working. Pulling off the jacket and handkerchief he looked around him.
Judging by the light that came from the windows he thought it to be late afternoon or early evening. He judged, too, that the day's grinding of flour had raised the level by well over a foot. His heart gave a bound of hope. It looked now as if he should be able to reach the window. Getting to his feet, he began to plough his way towards it.
As he did so it was borne in on him that, although he felt better in himself and much stronger, he was far from recovered from his injuries. He had been hit on the head by Schmidt, kicked on it by Gerault, kicked on the shin by Zapatro and struck under the jaw by Pedro; in addition to which he had been so roughly handled, particularly by Sanchez, that he had a score of minor cuts and bruises. Although his hours of trance had restored his energy they had done little to ease his afflictions and very soon his head was again throbbing painfully.
Nevertheless he set to at once to heighten the mound he had made with further layers of firmly pressed-down flour. Again its particles half-stifled him and covered him from head to foot with a coat of white, but after half an hour he had raised the mound sufficiently to get his hands well above the window sill.
The next thing was to break the window so that he could climb out. It had four panes, each about one foot six wide by two foot six high. Wrapping his fist in his handkerchief he smashed the two lower ones and several large pieces of glass fell outward from each. He then had to prise out the smaller jagged pieces that had been left round their lower edges; those at the top he could not reach.
Crouching down, he made a spring and caught at the central bar with the object of drawing himself up by it. The wood was old and partly rotten. It could not take his weight, and snapped. He went over backwards to fall half buried in the soft flour behind him. Picking himself up he saw that at least the bar had brought away with it two of the larger remaining triangles of glass, and there was now an opening big enough for him to get through easily.
On his secon
d jump he grasped the sill, got his elbows on it, thrust his head and shoulders through the opening, then wriggled forward until he had the sill under his middle and was half hanging out. But one glance downwards confirmed what he had feared. The sill of the window was over twenty feet above the cobbles of the yard outside.
He had hoped that he might get away without help; so that while Pedro, Ferrer and the rest believed him to be safely dead and buried beneath the flour, he could lodge with the police a charge of attempted murder against them. But that was obviously impossible. A drop of twenty feet on to cobbles was easily enough to kill a man. He might break his neck, or anyhow a leg, and perhaps as a result of such an impact sustain some serious internal injury.
To call for help might bring Pedro on the scene; but as it was still daylight there must be other people about, so it seemed unlikely that the giant foreman would dare to risk another attempt on his life. Anyhow, he could not hang indefinitely half out of the window with its sill pressing up painfully into his stomach; so the chance must be taken that it would be Pedro who answered his shouts. In any case he would be bound to hear that his intended victim had been rescued, so would warn the others and they would all go into hiding. But that, de Quesnoy decided grimly, was of no great moment as he would spare no pains to have them hunted down.
At the very moment he had made up his mind to shout, two workmen emerged from the warehouse on the opposite side of the yard. He called to them loudly; they looked up, saw him, and with exclamations of surprise came running towards the window.
'Help me down,' he cried. 'Quickly, I beg you. Help me down.'
They both stared up at him in amazement, then the elder, who was a bearded man, said to his companion, 'Quick, Antoine. Run and fetch Senor Conesa.'
As the other turned and started off across the yard, the bearded man called up to de QuesncJy, 'How the devil did you get there?'
'Never mind that,' the Count called back. 'Get a ladder. Help me down.'
After glancing uncertainly about him, the man said, 'We'll need a tall one; bigger than I could carry on my own. But we'll get one in a minute.'
The younger fellow had reached the little house beside the office block and was hammering on its door. A minute later it opened and the giant form of Pedro stood framed in it. Only then de Quesnoy remembered that the name Conesa had been mentioned in connection with the mill while Benigno was urging on his companions that their captive should be taken to it. Obviously, it was Pedro's surname.
Pedro and the man who had gone to fetch him came hurrying over. The former looked up with a scowl, then turned to the other two and said, 'Go get a ladder: the tall one out of the warehouse.'
When they were out of earshot he said angrily to the Count, 'To have lived through today you must have nine lives, like a cat.'
'I have,' replied de Quesnoy, 'but you have only one; and if you wish to keep it you would be wise to lose not a moment in going into hiding.'
But, as the Count feared would be the case, the implied threat failed to stampede Pedro into running off and leaving the others to rescue him. The burly foreman remained standing there, his great arms akimbo, until the other two returned with the ladder.
Having had them set it up alongside the window, Pedro said to them, 'The fellow must be a tramp who broke in for a night's shelter, then fell off the gallery. He is obviously a down-and-out, and was probably drunk.'
'That's a lie,' cried de Quesnoy. 'I'm no tramp. One of you run and fetch the police. Then you shall know how I came to be here.'
Ignoring him, Pedro went on. 'The poor chap must have near died of suffocation and it looks as if the terror of it drove him potty. Anyhow, he is in a pretty bad way and will need attention. Go and fetch the first aid kit from the office, Luis, and you, Antoine, run across to my house and tell my girl to put water on to boil. I'm quite strong enough to get him down on my own.'
'Stop!' called the Count. 'Stop! For God's sake don't leave me with him.' But the two men took no notice of him and ran off to do the jobs they had been given.
With a grim smile Pedro began to ascend the ladder.
De Quesnoy broke out into a cold sweat. Pedro could only have sent the other two away in order to make another attempt on his life while no one was watching. But what form would it take? To push him back into the flour chamber would not kill him, and how could his disappearance be explained when the others returned - as they were certain to within a matter of minutes?
Pedro had now reached the level of the window. The Count felt so certain that his intentions were evil that he decided to drop back into the flour chamber of his own accord. His decision was taken a second too late. As he moved Pedro shot out a huge hand, grabbed him by the wrist and snarled:
'Thought you'd got away with it, didn't you? Well, Monsieur clever Count, you haven't, see? Know what I'm going to do with you? I mean to break your neck then let you drop down on to the cobbles. I've already put it in the minds of my chaps that you've gone barmy. If I tell them you struggled with me and I lost my hold on you, they'll swallow it all right.'
As he spoke he was dragging de Quesnoy towards him. In vain the Count endeavoured to cling to the window sill. He had no purchase for his feet or back from which he could exert his own strength, and the great brute who was pulling him out of the window was far stronger.
The tussle lasted no more than a minute. De Quesnoy's knees, then his feet, came over the sill, and he swung out into space supported only by Pedro's grip on his wrist. But the grip took the strain of his weight until he crashed sideways into the ladder and got a foot on to one of its rungs. He was below Pedro, his face on a level with the backs of the giant's knees. For a moment they remained almost still while recovering a little from their efforts. Then Pedro turned sideways on the ladder and gave the Count's arm a series of jerks so violent that they threatened to pull it from its socket. The pain was so excruciating that de Quesnoy was forced to stumble up the ladder rung by rung until his head was on a level with Pedro's waist.
But now, in order to do de Quesnoy any vital injury, Pedro had to change his grip and with one of his hands he was hanging on to the ladder. In that lay the Count's one advantage, for although Pedro had him by one of his wrists his other hand was free.
When a youth in Russia, he had often participated in the national sport of wrestling, and later he had for a while studied the art of judo. One of its secrets he had learned was that by a certain grip on the shoulder with the thumb inclined downwards towards the collar-bone a muscle Can be pressed which causes exquisite pain. In desperation he now stretched up his free hand as far as it would go and exerted this grip on Pedro.
The anarchist gave a scream of agony, his eyes bulged and his body jerked forward. The result was that he lost his grip on the ladder. De Quesnoy snatched at it to save himself, but the weight of Pedro's big body falling outwards against him broke his hold before he could grasp it firmly. Next moment, with arms and legs still entangled, they went hurtling down on to the cobbles. They hit them with such force that, almost instantly, both of them were rendered unconscious.
As semi-consciousness returned to de Quesnoy he gradually became aware that he was in hospital. He was in no great pain but knew himself to be extremely ill. The vaguely-seen coifs of nuns came into his vision from time to time and a doctor coming to give him an injection confirmed his impression that he was being kept under morphia. A little later he was propped up to be sick and wondered to find himself in a common ward, for as yet no memory had returned which would have explained to him how he came to be there. He assumed that he must have been brought in from a street accident, but he did not realize that he was in Barcelona and from Spanish being spoken by the people about him he gained the impression that he was in Madrid.
For what seemed to him a very long time he lay comatose, only rousing a little now and then when they bathed his head or gave him another injection; and all the while he knew that he was hovering between life and death.
At leng
th a time came when, having lapsed into complete unconsciousness, he found himself outside his body and looking down on to it. His head was swathed in bandages, his left shoulder was strapped up, and a mound over his left leg showed that it was in splints.
Now, his mind cleared as suddenly as if a curtain had been drawn back. He knew that most of his injuries were the result of his fall from the ladder and was again fully aware of all the events which had led up to it.
As he regarded himself, two nuns came to his bedside followed by a priest carrying the Host. The nuns knelt and for a few moments there came the mutter of prayers while the priest administered Extreme Unction. Then the Count noticed that screens had already been drawn round the bed.
'So,' he thought, 'they expect me to die tonight. In fact, in their eyes I am already as good as dead. I must show them that I am not. I must return to my body at once, and next time anyone comes to the bedside make some movement. Otherwise they'll put me in the mortuary, then bury me.'
He willed himself downward towards his nostrils, but his act of will brought him little nearer to them. Its failure revealed to him how weak and attenuated his Silver Cord had become. In sudden panic he realized that it might break at any moment. If it did he would never be able to get back into his body, and would be really dead.
9
A Ghost in the Night
No one can be positive about what happens after death. Like the very beginning of all things and the meaning of eternity, it is one of the great mysteries and not meant for man to know. But throughout the ages a limited number of people have had experiences upon which they are at least justified in basing almost unanswerable arguments for the survival of the spirit and a belief that they have succeeded in lifting a corner of the veil.
In every period and country there have been people who, after profound meditation and long training, have acquired the ability to will the spirit that animates them out of their bodies while those bodies are still living. That they have actually done so has been proved by their remaining in a state of suspended animation for many days without any form of sustenance and, while in a state of trance, appearing in spirit form to convey messages and warnings to persons at a great distance. From this it is logical to conclude that when the body dies its ego does not die with it, but passes on to some new form of activity; and that those who have been able to leave their bodies while alive and return to them have brought back a certain degree of knowledge about the laws that govern life and so-called death.
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