The blue-tiled kitchenette had a wedge-shaped shaft built in across one corner, and in it was a small lift worked by ropes and unusually solid for such a contraption.
“This takes you right down to the back yard of the block,” Box said. “Interesting, isn’t it? It goes through the flat below, of course, but it doesn’t have an outlet there.”
“How do you know?” Fisher inquired.
“Because I’ve been to see. I’ve ridden up and down in that thing twice. You’ll find it more difficult because you haven’t got my elegant proportions, but I did it quite easily. Look!”
He climbed into the hatch and sat there cross-legged, smiling out at his visitor. “There you are,” he said. ‘These ropes work at a touch.”
He grasped the rope at his side and moved himself up and down a few feet either way with ease. “That isn’t all,” he went on hastily, “see this?”
He stretched out his hand and touched a switch on the inside of the panelling of the lift shaft. Instantly they were in darkness.
“See that?” Box’s voice was triumphant. ‘That turns out every light in the flat. And what’s more, you can’t turn them on again until this has been readjusted. You try!”
Using his torch, Fisher made the experiment. It was not until the switch had been put back that the flat was once more lit.
“Well, you’re glad you came along, aren’t you?” asked Box.
Fisher smiled.
“I am, certainly. You must have had a joyous evening playing with these gadgets. Any more?”
“Only one thing I know of.” Box was as pleased as a child with a new toy. “Come and stand in the sitting-room.”
They went back to the room Fisher had first seen, and Box indicated the fireplace. This was an over-decorated affair. The over mantle rose up to the ceiling and was made of lacquered wood ornamented with an inlay of mother-of-pearl in the form of a cherry branch in full blossom. The fireplace itself was set farther back in the wall, and there were small inglenooks built in on either side.
“What do you think of that?” Box demanded.
“Hideous,” said Fisher frankly. “That decoration doesn’t go with that design.”
Box grinned. “Well, you stand and watch it, that’s all.”
He went out of the room, leaving the door open, and from where Fisher stood he could see his dressing-gowned figure pass down the corridor and unlock the front door, through which he disappeared.
“Now,” said his exuberant voice. “See the fireplace?”
Fisher glanced up. Each mother-of-pearl bud and flower was glowing with a ruby light. The effect was pleasant and somehow startling.
Box came back highly delighted.
“Did you notice it? Rather natty, isn’t it? I saw it first when the man came to read the meter. It works very simply. Anybody standing on the doormat forms a contact which produces the illumination. Rather a jolly little flat, isn’t it? Just the place for auntie.”
Fisher sat down in one of the deep armchairs before the fireplace.
“Look here, Box,” he said. “How did you get hold of this place? How long have you been here?”
“I moved in about four o’clock this afternoon and I took the flat off a most respectable agent at eleven o’clock this morning. Apparently his client has gone abroad on a film contract. He’s an actor. I forget the name. He left very suddenly and just threw the keys in at the agents and told them to let it. It’s very cheap considering, and I snapped it up. Of course, I don’t know if I should have been so certain it was just what auntie wanted if I’d noticed all the parlour tricks, but I didn’t spot them until this evening. I rang up the agent but he’d packed up for the night. Then, of course, I just had to have someone in to see my display, so I got on to you. Would you like a history of my life now? Or perhaps, if we could think of a crowd we could ring up, we might throw a party. There must be a few people we know who haven’t gone to bed yet.”
Fisher did not respond immediately. His mind was taken up with the strange disclosures he had just seen. Of course, there was just a chance that these elaborate signals and precautions were the property of a burglar-shy householder, alarmed by the recent increase in crime, but it hardly seemed likely.
Box broke into his thoughts.
“There’s another bedroom over there you can have,” he said. “Or don’t the police ever sleep? I’m not a nervous man, you know, but there’s something about this place that gives me the creeps. Do you notice it? There’s a sort of—how shall I say?—expectant atmosphere about. Something most extraordinary.”
Fisher did not answer. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that instant there came an interruption so remarkable that it brought both young men to their feet. A prickly sensation ran down Fisher’s spine.
From the fireplace someone had spoken. The voice had the curious metallic, yet hollow quality of a bad loudspeaker.
“Put out the lights,” it said. “Put out the lights. We’re coming up!”
As Fisher stood there wrestling with his surprise the voice came again. “Put out the lights. We’re coming up!”
Fisher was the first to pull himself together. He sprang forward into the wide, open fireplace and peered under the mantle. The explanation was instantly apparent. It was a loudspeaker. This then, was yet another of the many curious devices hidden in the flat. Even as he watched the disc it spoke again.
“Put out the lights. Hurry!”
Motioning Box to follow him, Fisher darted into the kitchen and pressed back the master switch. He had no doubt that there must be another such device more conveniently placed in the flat, but now was not the time to search for it. Then, keeping Box behind him, Fisher crept back to the main room. As they stood waiting in the darkness they could hear a little traffic in the street outside but otherwise there was not a sound. The flat seemed to be holding its breath.
Suddenly Box gripped the detective’s arm and Fisher, who had his eyes fixed on the spot where he guessed the doorway must be, caught sight of the cherry branch picked out in crimson lights on the mantel. The warning was dramatic. Someone stood outside the green front door.
After what seemed like a full minute there was a faint click down the passage, followed by a rustling. Fisher laid a restraining hand on Box’s arm. He was sufficiently experienced not to go leaping into a fight without first discovering the odds against him.
The silence was nerve-racking. The darkness seemed full of strange forms, there was no sound, no breath to tell them whether they were alone or not.
It was the crimson warning over the fireplace flashing out once again which was the first real indication that their visitors were leaving. Three times the lights flashed and then all was darkness.
Fisher pulled out his torch and swept it round the room. Nothing had been disturbed. They appeared to be alone. Box stepped back into the kitchen and a second later the lights were on again.
It was Fisher who first caught sight of the object down the end of the corridor just inside the front door. With a smothered exclamation he darted forward, Box at his heels. When they were within six paces of it, they pulled up short, and the two young men stood staring at this newest and most remarkable surprise the flat had to offer.
Half lying, half seated upon a heavy hall chair, her head thrown back, her eyes closed and her slim hands and ankles bound with cord, reclined a girl.
Fisher bent over her. “Good heavens!” he said. “Whatever next! Look here, you go and get her some water while I untie her.”
He turned his head as he spoke, and just for an instant he saw an expression on the other man’s face. Fisher only caught a fleeting impression and in a moment it had passed from his mind as Box’s face regained its normal colour and blissful appearance.
“Oh, yes. Yes, quite. I think that’s a good idea. Should it be brandy? No, perhaps not. What a funny flat. I must tell the man tomorrow it won’t suit auntie. Strange women popping in like this. She doesn’t consider herself old-fashioned,
but she wouldn’t like it. She’s funny that way.”
He trotted off to the kitchen while Fisher unbound the cord which fastened the girl’s wrists and ankles. She was beautiful. Her long red-brown hair flowed against her soft white skin, and her heavy dark lashes enhanced her pallor. Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked at him. Her first expression was one of surprise, which quickly turned to terror.
Before Fisher could speak, Box’s inconsequential voice echoed from the kitchenette.
“Here, I say, Bob, half a minute! Come. Come at once, will you?”
There was an urgent note in the tone and Fisher turned instinctively. He found Box hanging over the lift.
“Listen,” Box said. “Can you hear something?”
Fisher bent over the shaft.
“There’s nothing there,” he said at length. “What did you think you heard?”
“Someone screamed.” Box had lowered his voice and the effect was somewhat ludicrous. Fisher was inclined to be irritated. He took a glass from the shelf and filled it from under the tap.
“Come on,” he said. “Don’t forget the girl. She can probably put us wise to the whole thing.”
As he entered the passage he heard a sound which brought a curse to his lips. As soon as he came in sight of that empty chair he knew what had happened. The cords which had bound her lay on the floor and the front door hung wide. The girl was gone.
Fisher turned round and thrust the glass into Box’s hand.
“Here, take this,” he commanded.
“I say, where are you going? Wait for me!”
Fisher glanced at him over his shoulder as he reached the door. “I may just catch her. See you later.”
Box followed him to the doorway and then he frowned and, coming back slowly into the flat, shut the hall door behind him. For a moment he stood hesitating. Then he shrugged his shoulders and, placing the glass of water on the hall table, went back into the bedroom and began to dress with speed.
When he came out of the room, although his bland face was still good humoured a subtle difference had come over the expression in his eyes. They were no longer frank. Instead a purposeful look lingered in their depths. He went round the flat, turning out the lights, and then made his way to the kitchenette. He entered the lift with the air of one long accustomed to do so, and lowered himself swiftly into the yard below.
The dark coat which covered his trim form rendered him inconspicuous. He stood for a moment looking about him. Then, convinced that he was unobserved, he sent the lift back into position. Pulling his hat down over his eyes he stepped across the concrete and entered what appeared to be an area leading to a coal cellar.
The place was empty. It had been built in the days when the block of flats was a private house. The man seemed to know his way, for he used no torch and there were no street lights. He crept softly round the wall, and finally, discovering the door he sought, passed through it into yet another cellar.
He came out of this into an area precisely similar to the one by which he had entered. He stepped up into the street in a narrow turning on the opposite side of the road from the block of flats.
He stood listening but there were no unusual sounds above the hum of the traffic. Presently he set off down the pavement and turned into Winton Mews.
The narrow, unsavoury court was quiet, and no gleam of light showed from the windows above the garage doors. Box stepped forward and, moving up to the third door on the left, knocked twice, once loudly and once softly. Instantly it swung open, and he stepped into the darkness within.
“I wish you’d talk. You get on my nerves sitting there, Fishy Eyes!”
Mr. Knapp stood at the end of the wooden table in the damp, ill-lighted cellar and looked at the man who sat opposite, his head resting upon his clasped hands, a dull expression upon his white face.
Joseph Thurtle had looked weary when he had stepped off the boat train at Victoria a little over twenty-four hours before, but in the interval he had become more haggard and drawn than would have seemed possible. He took no notice of the garage proprietor’s opening gambit, but continued to stare straight in front of him.
“Leave “im alone, Thos, can’t you?” The speaker was a heavily built, red-faced individual, who lay sprawled upon a pile of newspapers spread out on a packing case in the corner of the cellar. “Leave “im to the boss!”
The other two occupants were cutting for coins on yet another box and they nodded their approval. One was a slender, dark young man and the other a splendidly proportioned, hard-bitten-looking giant of a man with three days’ growth of honey-coloured hair on his chin.
Mr. Knapp sniffed and wandered over to join the card players.
“I can’t understand you, Jack,” he said, eyeing the dark young man. ‘You sit here and play with Bill all day long. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
“Run away, Thos. You’re interrupting!” Jack Simmons’ voice was unexpectedly well modulated. “Bill and I have done enough work for today. We don’t get our fun as you do, tormenting the prisoner.”
“That’s right.” The man addressed as Bill revealed a guttural Scandinavian accent. “You go and worry Tim.” He indicated the big man in the corner.
“If he comes over here,” said that worthy with sudden violence, “I’ll break his skinny little neck.”
“All right. No offence, I “ope!” Mr. Knapp perched himself on the edge of the table and considered Joseph Thurtle once again.
Suddenly a rumbling roar shook the room in which they sat, but none of the men so much as batted an eyelid. They were used to the tube trains which hurtled past within a few feet of them. Joseph Thurtle stirred wearily where he sat, but the blank helpless look did not vanish from his eyes.
Then there was the sound of an electric bell and the company in the room glanced up. Mr. Knapp slipped off the table and stood. A rough wooden door at the far end of the room swung open and a young man appeared. The collar of his dark coat was turned up and his hat was pulled well down over his eyes. He stood for a moment looking round at them, his plump face bland and inscrutable.
George Box, part-time theatre critic and part-time crook who had as yet escaped the attentions of the police, surveyed his assistants and his prisoner.
“Where’s Casson?” he demanded.
“In the office.” Mr. Knapp indicated a further door on the opposite side of the cellar. “Mr. Levine and Jamieson are there, too.”
Box nodded. The room he entered, although a cellar like the first, presented a very different appearance. Its walls had been painted and a fitted carpet covered the floor. It was also furnished for comfort.
The three men who lounged on the couch before the electric fire were different from their colleagues without. Here was the nucleus of the powerful organisation which caused Scotland Yard so much anxiety. There was Casson, a small wiry man with a toothbrush moustache, Jamieson, a quiet, grey-faced business man and Levine, perhaps the cleverest of the three. He was an elderly dapper Frenchman, irreproachably dressed in the latest fashion.
Box took off his hat and coat and threw them on a chair.
“Really, Casson,” he said mildly, “I wish you wouldn’t leave your lady friends about my flat without warning me. I had a visitor at the time, and it was very awkward. I’ve got nothing against the girl, mind you. It was only the way she intruded. You don’t mind me mentioning it, do you?”
Casson started up in alarm.
“Oh! Who was there? I didn’t know what to do with the girl. I couldn’t very well have her here. The flat seemed the safest place to leave her.”
Box sat down on the arm of the couch.
“Suppose we get this thing straight,” he said, “who on earth is she?”
Casson and Levine exchanged glances. In spite of Box’s light manner there was something sinister in his tone, an implied reproach which they were quick to notice.
“We found her in the tube, hiding. She didn’t give any account of herself, and it occurred to m
e that she might be dangerous.”
It was Levine who spoke, his slight French accent clipping the words.
Box smiled. “I see. So you tied her up and left her in the flat for me to deal with? I recognised your voice, Casson, over the microphone. I only hope that Inspector Fisher didn’t make a mental note of it also.”
“Inspector Fisher?”
All three men stared at him.
“In the flat? Then he knows?”
“Everything,” said Box complacently. “He’s seen some of the gadgets and was suitably impressed. I admit the sensational appearance of the girl was more than I’d bargained for.”
“But how did he get there? How did he find it?”
“I invited him, and I showed him.” Box’s smile broadened.
Jamieson rose to his feet and peered into the round, smiling face.
“What are you playing at, Box?”
“Sit down. Don’t worry. Let me explain. It occurred to me that the police activities in the WX-Fifteen district are beginning to irritate. Frankly, Jamieson, it is getting too hot. I considered the matter and decided that the best thing to do was to give them something to get their teeth into. I’ve been cultivating Fisher for some time, as you know. He holds the interesting theory that I’m an idle fool.”
Box paused for a moment, smiling, as if pleased by his own cleverness.
‘This is our last job. We want the police fully occupied while we make our various getaways. Since we shall no longer require the fiat I told him I’d rented it for an aunt of mine and that I thought there was something odd about it. At first he wasn’t interested, but when I gave him the address he perked up his ears and came along this evening. I showed him over the place, and was just going to leave him to draw his own conclusion when the girl made her sensational entry. Now, Casson, she got away and Fisher went after her. If he catches her how much will she be able to tell him?”
“Not much,” said Casson quickly. “Fortunately, not much. We didn’t bring her here at all. We blindfolded her in the tube and took her up through the garage. She’d never recognise it again.”
Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories Page 17