The next morning I called upon Digby and found him breakfasting at his club. He looked worried, and, when I came in, his greeting was scarcely cordial.
“What a solemn face, Pleydell!” he said. “Is anything wrong?” He motioned me to a seat near, I sank into it.
“I want you to come out of town with me,” I said. “I can take a day off. Shall we both run down to Brighton? We can return in time for our interview with Lancaster tomorrow.”
“It is impossible,” he answered. “I should like to come with you, but I have an engagement for tonight.”
“Are you going to The Rosary?” I asked.
“I am,” he replied, after a moment’s pause. “Why, what is the matter?” he added. “I suppose I may consider myself a free agent.” There was marked irritation in his tone.
“I wish you would not go,” I said.
“Why not?”
“I do not trust the people.”
“Folly, Pleydell. In the old days you used not to be so prejudiced.”
“I had not the same cause. Digby, if ever people are trying to get you into their hands, they are those people. Have you not already imparted your secret to them?”
“How do you know?” he exclaimed, springing up and turning crimson.
“Well, can you deny it?”
His face paled.
“I don’t know that I want to,” he said. “Mrs. Scaiffe and Merello will join me in this matter. There is no reason why things should be kept dark from them.”
“But is this fair or honourable to Lancaster? Remember, I have already written fully to him. Do, I beg of you, be careful.”
“Lancaster cannot object to possible wealthy shareholders,” was Digby’s answer. “Anyhow,” he added, laughing uneasily, “I object to being interfered with. Pray understand that, old man, if we are to continue friends; and now bye-bye for the present. We meet at eleven o’clock tomorrow at Lancaster’s.”
His manner gave me no pretext for remaining longer with him, and I returned to my own work. About five o’clock on that same day a telegram was handed to me which ran as follows:—
“Come here at once.—Garland.”
I left the house, hailed a hansom, and in a quarter of an hour was shown into Garland’s study. He was not alone. A rather tall, grey-haired, grey-moustached, middle-aged man was with him. This man was introduced to me as Inspector Frost.
“Now, Pleydell,” said Garland, in his quick, incisive way, “listen to me carefully. The time is short. Inspector Frost and I have not ceased our inquiries since you called on me last night. I must tell you that we believe the affair to be of the most serious kind. Time is too pressing now to enter into all details, but the thing amounts to this. There is the gravest suspicion that Mrs. Scaiffe and her brother, Señor Merello, are employed by a notorious gang in Brazil to force Digby to disclose the exact position of the gold mine. We also know for certain that Mrs. Scaiffe is in constant and close communication with some very suspicious people both in London and in Brazil.
“Now listen. The crisis is to be tonight. Digby is to take supper at The Rosary, and there to give himself absolutely away. He will take his chart with him; that is the scheme. Digby must not go—that is, if we can possibly prevent him. We expect you to do what you can under the circumstances, but as the case is so serious, and as it is more than probable that Digby will not be persuaded, Inspector Frost and myself and a number of men of his division will surround the house as soon as it becomes dark, and if Digby should insist on going in every protection in case of difficulty will be given him. The presence of the police will also insure the capture of Mrs. Scaiffe and her brother.”
“You mean,” I said, “that you will, if necessary, search the house?”
“Yes.”
“But how can you do so without a warrant?”
“We have thought of that,” said Garland, with a smile. “A magistrate living at Hampstead has been already communicated with. If necessary, one of our men will ride over to his house, and procure the requisite instrument to enforce our entrance.”
“Very well,” I answered; “then I will go at once to Digby’s, but I may as well tell you plainly that I have very little hope of dissuading him.”
I drove as fast as I could to my friend’s rooms, but was greeted with the information that he had already left, and was not expected back until late that evening. This was an unlooked-for blow.
I went to his club—he was not there. I then returned to Dr. Garland.
“I failed to find him,” I said. “What can be done? Is it possible that he has already gone to his fate?”
“That is scarcely likely,” replied Garland, after a pause. “He was invited to supper at The Rosary, and according to your poor young friend’s letter the time named was late. There is nothing for it but to waylay him on the grounds before he goes in. You will come with us tonight, will you not, Pleydell?”
“Certainly,” I answered.
Garland and I dined together. At little after nine we left Eaton Square, and, punctually at ten o’clock, the hansom we had taken put us down at one of the roads on the north side of the Heath. The large house which I knew so well loomed black in the moonlight.
The night was cold and fresh. The moon was in its second quarter and was shining brightly. Garland and I passed down the dimly lit lane beside the wall. A tall, dark figure loomed from the darkness, and, as it came forward, I saw that it was Inspector Frost.
“Mr. Digby has not arrived yet,” he said. “Perhaps, sir,” he added, looking at me, “you can even now dissuade him, for it is a bad business. All my men are ready,” he continued, “and at a signal the house will be surrounded; but we must have one last try to prevent his entering it. Come this way, please, sir,” he added, beckoning to me to follow him.
We passed out into the road.
“I am absolutely bewildered, inspector,” I said to him. “Do you mean to say there is really great danger?”
“The worst I ever knew,” was his answer. “You cannot stop a man entering a house if he wishes to; but I can tell you, Mr. Pleydell, I do not believe his life is worth that if he goes in.” And the inspector snapped his fingers.
He had scarcely ceased speaking when the jingling of the bells of a hansom sounded behind us. The cab drew up at the gates and Oscar Digby alighted close to us.
Inspector Frost touched him on the shoulder.
He swung round and recognised me.
“Halloa! Pleydell,” he said, in no very cordial accents. “What in the name of Heaven are you doing here? What does this mean? Who is this man?”
“I am a police officer, Mr. Digby, and I want to speak to you. Mr. Pleydell has asked you not to go into that house. You are, of course, free to do as you like, but I must tell you that you are running into great danger. Be advised by me and go away.”
For answer Digby thrust his hand into his breast-pocket. He pulled out a note which he gave me.
“Read that, Pleydell,” he said; “and receive my answer.” I tore the letter from its envelope and read in the moonlight—
“Come to me. I am in danger and suffering. Do not fail me.—Muriel.”
“A hoax! A forgery!” I could not help crying. “For God’s sake, Digby, don’t be mad.”
“Mad or sane, I go into that house,” he said. His bright blue eyes flashed with passion and his breath came quickly.
“Hands off, sir. Don’t keep me.”
He swung himself away from me.
“One word,” called the inspector after him. “How long do you expect to remain?”
“Perhaps an hour. I shall be home by midnight.”
“And now, sir, please listen. You can be assured, in case of any trouble, that we are here, and I may further tell you that if you are not out of the house by one o’clock we shall enter with a search warrant.”
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Digby stood still for a moment, then he turned to me.
“I cannot but resent your interference, but I believe you mean well. Good-bye!” He wrung my hand and walked quickly up the drive.
We watched him ring the bell. The door was opened at once by the negro servant. Digby entered. The door closed silently. Inspector Frost gave a low whistle.
“I would not be that man for a good deal,” he said.
Garland came up to us both.
“Is the house entirely surrounded, Frost?” I heard him whisper. Frost smiled, and I saw his white teeth gleam in the darkness. He waved his hand.
“There is not a space of six feet between man and man,” I heard him say; “and now we have nothing to do but to wait and hope for at least an hour and a half. If in an hour’s time Mr. Digby does not reappear I shall send a man for the warrant. At one o’clock we enter the house.”
Garland and I stood beneath a large fir tree in a dense shade and within the enclosed garden. The minutes seemed to crawl. Our conversation was limited to low whispers at long intervals.
Eleven o’clock chimed on the church clock near by; then half-past sounded on the night air. My ears were strained to catch the expected click of the front door-latch, but it did not come. The house remained wrapt in silence. Once Garland whispered—
“Hark!” We listened closely. It certainly seemed to me that a dull, muffled sound, as of pounding or hammering, was just audible; but whether it came from the house or not it was impossible to tell.
At a quarter to twelve the one remaining lighted window on the first floor became suddenly dark. Still there was no sign of Digby. Midnight chimed.
Frost said a word to Garland and disappeared, treading softly. He was absent for more than half an hour. When he returned I heard him say—
“I have got it,” and he touched his pocket with his hand as he spoke.
The remaining moments went by in intense anxiety, and, just as the deep boom of one o’clock was heard the inspector laid his hand on my shoulder.
“Come along quietly,” he whispered.
Some sign, conveyed by a low whistle, passed from him to his men, and I heard the bushes rustle around us.
The next moment we had ascended the steps, and we could hear the deep whirr of the front door bell as Frost pressed the button.
In less time than we had expected we heard the bolts shot back. The door was opened on a chain and a black face appeared at the slit.
“Who are you and what do you want?” said a voice.
“I have called for Mr. Digby,” said Frost. “Go and tell him that his friend, Mr. Pleydell, and also Doctor Garland want to see him immediately.”
A look of blank surprise came over the negro’s face.
“But no one of the name of Digby lives here,” he said.
“Mrs. Scaiffe lives here,” replied the inspector, “and also a Spanish gentleman of the name of Señor Merello. Tell them that I wish to see them immediately, and that I am a police officer.”
A short conversation was evidently taking place within. The next moment the door was flung open, electric lights sprang into being, and my eyes fell upon Mrs. Scaiffe.
She was dressed with her usual magnificence. She came forward with a stately calm and stood silently before us. Her large black eyes were gleaming.
“Well, Mr. Pleydell,” she said, speaking in an easy voice, “what is the reason of this midnight disturbance? I am always glad to welcome you to my house, but is not the hour a little late?”
Her words were interrupted by Inspector Frost, who held up his hand.
“Your attitude, madam,” he said, “is hopeless. We have all come here with a definite object. Mr. Oscar Digby entered this house at a quarter past ten tonight. From that moment the house has been closely surrounded. He is therefore still here.”
“Where is your authority for this unwarrantable intrusion?” she said. Her manner changed, her face grew hard as iron. Her whole attitude was one of insolence and defiance.
The inspector immediately produced his warrant.
She glanced over it and uttered a shrill laugh.
“Mr. Digby is not in the house,” she said.
She had scarcely spoken before an adjoining door was opened, and Señor Merello, looking gaunt and very white about the face approached. She looked up at him and smiled, then she said, carelessly:—
“Gentlemen, this is my brother, Señor Merello.”
The Señor bowed slightly, but did not speak.
“Once more,” said Frost, “where is Mr. Digby?”
“I repeat once more,” said Mrs. Scaiffe, “that Mr. Digby is not in this house.”
“But we saw him enter at a quarter past ten.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“He is not here now.”
“He could not have gone, for the house has been surrounded.”
Again she gave her shoulders a shrug. “You have your warrant, gentlemen,” she said; “you can look for yourselves.”
Frost came up to her.
“I regret to say, madam, that you, this gentlemen, and all your servants must consider yourselves under arrest until we find Mr. Oscar Digby.”
“That will be for ever, then,” she replied; “but please yourselves.”
My heart beat with an unwonted sense of terror. What could the woman mean? Digby, either dead or alive, must be in the house.
The operations which followed were conducted rapidly. The establishment, consisting of Mrs. Scaiffe, her brother, two Spanish men-servants, two maids, one of Spanish extraction, and the negro who had opened the door to us, were summoned and placed in the charge of a police-sergeant.
Muriel Scaiffe was nowhere to be seen.
Then our search of the house began. The rooms on the ground-floor, consisting of the drawing-room, dining-room, and two other big rooms, were fitted up in quite an everyday manner. We did not take much time going through them.
In the basement, the large cellar which had attracted Mrs. Scaiffe’s pleased surprise on the day when I took her to see The Rosary had now been fitted up as a laboratory. I gazed at it in astonishment. It was evidently intended for the manufacture of chemicals on an almost commercial scale. All the latest chemical and electrical apparatus were to be found there, as well as several large machines, the purposes of which were not evident. One in particular I specially noticed. It was a big tank with a complicated equipment for the manufacture of liquid air in large quantities.
We had no time to give many thoughts to the laboratory just then. A foreboding sense of ever-increasing fear was upon each and all of us. It was sufficient to see that Digby was not there.
Our search in the upper regions was equally unsuccessful. We were just going down stairs again when Frost drew my attention to a door which we had not yet opened. We went to it and found it locked. Putting our strength to work, Garland and I between us burst it open. Within, we found a girl crouching by the bed. She was only partly dressed, and her head was buried in her hands. We went up to her. She turned, saw my face, and suddenly clung to me.
“Have you found him? Is he safe?”
“I do not know, my dear,” I answered, trying to soothe her. “We are looking for him. God grant us success.”
“Did he come to the house? I have been locked in here all day and heavily drugged. I have only just recovered consciousness and scarcely know what I am doing. Is he in the house?”
“He came in. We are searching for him; we hope to find him.”
“That you will never do!” She gave a piercing cry and fell unconscious on the floor.
We placed the unhappy girl on the bed. Garland produced brandy and gave her a few drops; she came to in a couple of minutes and began to moan feebly. We left her, promising to return. We had no time to attend to her just then.
W
hen we reached the hall Frost stood still.
“The man is not here,” he muttered.
But he is here, was Garland’s incisive answer. “Inspector, you have got to tear the place to pieces.”
The latter nodded.
The inspector’s orders were given rapidly, and dawn was just breaking when ten policemen, ordered in from outside, began their systematic search of the entire house from roof to basement.
Pick and crowbar were ruthlessly applied, and never have I seen a house in such a mess. Floorings were torn up and rafters cut through. Broken plaster littered the rooms and lay about on the sumptuous furniture. Walls were pierced and bored through. Closets and cupboards were ransacked. The backs of the fireplaces were torn out and the chimneys explored.
Very little was said as our investigation proceeded, and room after room was checked off.
Finally, an exhaustive examination of the basement and cellars completed our search.
“Well, Dr. Garland, are you satisfied?” asked the inspector.
We had gone back to the garden, and Garland was leaning against a tree, his hands thrust in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the ground. Frost pulled his long moustache and breathed quickly.
“Are you satisfied?” he repeated.
“We must talk sense or we shall all go mad,” was Garland’s answer. “The thing is absurd, you know. Men don’t disappear. Let us work this thing out logically. There are only three planes in space and we know matter is indestructible. If Digby left this house he went up, down, or horizontally. Up is out of the question. If he disappeared in a balloon or was shot off the roof he must have been seen by us, for the house was surrounded. He certainly did not pass through the cordon of men. He did not go down, for every cubic foot of basement and cellar has been accounted for, as well as every cubic foot of space in the house.
“So we come to the chemical change of matter, dissipation into gas by heat. There are no furnaces, no ashes, no gas cylinders, nor dynamos, nor carbon points. The time when we lost sight of him to the time of entrance was exactly two hours and three-quarters. There is no way out of it. He is still there.”
The Measure of Malice Page 10