CHAPTER FIVE
THE DARK HOUSE IN BAYSWATER
Edmund Shuttleworth, the thin-faced, clean-shaven Hampshire rector,had spoken the truth. His manner and speech were that of an honestman.
Within myself I could but admit it. Yet I loved Sylvia. Why, I cannottell. How can a man tell why he loves? First love is more than themere awakening of a passion: it is transition to another state ofbeing. When it is born the man is new-made.
Yet, as the spring days passed, I lived in suspicion and wonder, evermystified, ever apprehensive.
Each morning I looked eagerly for a letter from her, yet each morningI was disappointed.
It seemed true, as Shuttleworth had said, that an open gulf laybetween us.
Where was she, I wondered? I dared not write to Gardone, as she hadbegged me not to do so. She had left there, no doubt, for was she nota constant wanderer? Was not her stout, bald-headed father the modernincarnation of the Wandering Jew?
May lengthened into June, with its usual society functions and all thewild gaiety of the London season. The Derby passed and Ascot came,the Park was full every day, theatres and clubs were crowded, and thehotels overflowed with Americans and country cousins. I had manyinvitations, but accepted few. Somehow, my careless cosmopolitanismhad left me. I had become a changed man.
And if I were to believe the woman who had come so strangely and sosuddenly into my life, I was a marked man also.
Disturbing thoughts often arose within me in the silence of the night,but, laughing at them, I crushed them down. What had I possibly tofear? I had no enemy that I was aware of. The whole suggestion seemedso utterly absurd and far-fetched.
Jack Marlowe came back from Denmark hale and hearty, and more thanonce I was sorely tempted to explain to him the whole situation. OnlyI feared he would jeer at me as a love-sick idiot.
What was the secret held by that grey-faced country parson? Whateverit might be, it was no ordinary one. He had spoken of the seal of TheConfessional. What sin had Sylvia Pennington confessed to him?
Day after day, as I sat in my den at Wilton Street smoking moodily andthinking, I tried vainly to imagine what cardinal sin she could havecommitted. My sole thoughts were of her, and my all-consumingeagerness was to meet her again.
On the night of the twentieth of June--I remember the date wellbecause the Gold Cup had been run that afternoon--I had come in fromsupper at the Ritz about a quarter to one, and retired to bed. Isuppose I must have turned in about half-an-hour, when the telephoneat my bedside rang, and I answered.
"Hulloa!" asked a voice. "Is that you, Owen?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Jack speaking--Jack Marlowe," exclaimed the distant voice. "Is thatyou, Owen? Your voice sounds different."
"So does yours, a bit," I said. "Voices often do on the 'phone. Whereare you?"
"I'm out in Bayswater--Althorp House, Porchester Terrace," my friendreplied. "I'm in a bit of a tight corner. Can you come here? I'm sosorry to trouble you, old man. I wouldn't ask you to turn out at thishour if it weren't imperative."
"Certainly I'll come," I said, my curiosity at once aroused. "Butwhat's up?"
"Oh, nothing very alarming," he laughed. "Nothing to worry over. I'vebeen playing cards, and lost a bit, that's all. Bring yourcheque-book; I want to pay up before I leave. You understand. I knowyou'll help me, like the good pal you always are."
"Why, of course I will, old man," was my prompt reply.
"I've got to pay up my debts for the whole week--nearly a thousand.Been infernally unlucky. Never had such vile luck. Have you got it inthe bank? I can pay you all right at the end of next week."
"Yes," I said, "I can let you have it."
"These people know you, and they'll take your cheque, they say."
"Right-ho!" I said; "I'll get a taxi and be up with you inhalf-an-hour."
"You're a real good pal, Owen. Remember the address: Althorp House,Porchester Terrace," cried my friend cheerily. "Get here as soon asyou can, as I want to get home. So-long."
And, after promising to hurry, I hung up the receiver again.
Dear old Jack always was a bit reckless. He had a good income allowedhim by his father, but was just a little too fond of games of chance.He had been hard hit in February down at Monte Carlo, and I had lenthim a few hundreds to tide him over. Yet, by his remarks over the'phone, I could only gather that he had fallen into the hands ofsharpers, who held him up until he paid--no uncommon thing in London.Card-sharpers are generally blackmailers as well, and no doubt thesepeople were bleeding poor Jack to a very considerable tune.
I rose, dressed, and, placing my revolver in my hip pocket in case oftrouble, walked towards Victoria Station, where I found a belatedtaxi.
Within half-an-hour I alighted before a large dark house abouthalf-way up Porchester Terrace, Bayswater, standing back from theroad, with small garden in front; a house with closely-shutteredwindows, the only light showing being that in the fanlight over thedoor.
My approaching taxi was being watched for, I suppose, for as I crossedthe gravel the door fell back, and a smart, middle-aged man-servantadmitted me.
"I want to see Mr. Marlowe," I said.
"Are you Mr. Biddulph?" he inquired, eyeing me with some suspicion.
I replied in the affirmative, whereupon he invited me to stepupstairs, while I followed him up the wide, well-carpeted staircaseand along a corridor on the first floor into a small sitting-room atthe rear of the house.
"Mr. Marlowe will be here in a few moments, sir," he said; "he left amessage asking you to wait. He and Mr. Forbes have just gone acrossthe road to a friend's house. I'll send over and tell him you arehere, if you'll kindly take a seat."
The room was small, fairly well furnished, but old-fashioned, and litby an oil-lamp upon the table. The air was heavy with tobacco-smoke,and near the window was a card-table whereat four players had beenseated. The cigar-ash bore testimony to recent occupation of the fourchairs, while two packs of cards had been flung down just as the menhad risen.
The window was hidden by long curtains of heavy moss-green plush,while in one corner of the room, upon a black marble pedestal, stood abeautiful sculptured statuette of a girl, her hands uplifted togetherabove her head in the act of diving. I examined the exquisite work ofart, and saw upon its brass plate the name of an eminent Frenchsculptor.
The carpet, of a peculiar shade of red which contrasted well with thedead-white enamelled walls, was soft to the tread, so that myfootsteps fell noiselessly as I moved.
Beside the fireplace was a big inviting saddle-bag chair, into which Ipresently sank, awaiting Jack.
Who were his friends, I wondered?
The house seemed silent as the grave. I listened for Jack's footsteps,but could hear nothing.
I was hoping that the loss of nearly a thousand pounds would cure myfriend of his gambling propensities. Myself, I had never experienced adesire to gamble. A sovereign or so on a race was the extent of myadventures.
The table, the cards, the tantalus-stand and the empty glasses toldtheir own tale. I was sorry, truly sorry, that Jack should mix withsuch people--professional gamblers, without a doubt.
Every man-about-town in London knows what a crowd of professionalplayers and blackmailers infest the big hotels, on the look-out forpigeons to pluck. The American bars of London each have their littlecircle of well-dressed sharks, and woe betide the victims who fallinto their unscrupulous hands. I had believed Jack Marlowe to be morewary. He was essentially a man of the world, and had always laughed atthe idea that he could be "had" by sharpers, or induced to play withstrangers.
I think I must have waited for about a quarter of an hour. As I satthere, I felt overcome by a curious drowsiness, due, no doubt, to thestrenuous day I had had, for I had driven down to Ascot in the car,and had gone very tired to bed.
Suddenly, without a sound, the door opened, and a youngish,dark-haired, clean-shaven man in evening dress entered swiftly,accompanied by another man a few years older, tal
l and thin, whosenose and pimply face was that of a person much dissipated. Both weresmoking cigars.
"You are Mr. Biddulph, I believe!" exclaimed the younger. "Marloweexpects you. He's over the road, talking to the girl."
"What girl?"
"Oh, a little girl who lives over there," he said, with a mysterioussmile. "But have you brought the cheque?" he asked. "He told us thatyou'd settle up with us."
"Yes," I said, "I have my cheque-book in my pocket."
"Then perhaps you'll write it?" he said, taking a pen-and-ink andblotter from a side-table and placing it upon the card-table. "Theamount altogether is one thousand one hundred and ten pounds," heremarked, consulting an envelope he took from his pocket.
"I shall give you a cheque for it when my friend comes," I said.
"Yes, but we don't want to be here all night, you know," laughed thepimply-faced man. "You may as well draw it now, and hand it over to uswhen he comes in."
"How long is he likely to be?"
"How can we tell? He's a bit gone on her."
"Who is she?"
"Oh! a little girl my friend Reckitt here knows," interrupted theyounger man. "Rather pretty. Reckitt is a fair judge of good looks.Have a cigarette?" and the man offered me a cigarette, which, out ofcommon courtesy, I was bound to take from his gold case.
I sat back in my chair and lit up, and as I did so my ears caught thefaint sound of a receding motor-car.
"Aren't you going to draw the cheque?" asked the man with the pimplyface. "Marlowe said you would settle at once; Charles Reckitt is myname. Make it out to me."
"And so I will, as soon as he arrives," I replied.
"Why not now? We'll give you a receipt."
"I don't know at what amount he acknowledges the debt," I pointed out.
"But we've told you, haven't we? One thousand one hundred and tenpounds."
"That's according to your reckoning. He may add up differently, youknow," I said, with a doubtful smile.
"You mean that you doubt us, eh?" asked Reckitt a trifle angrily.
"Not in the least," I assured him, with a smile. "If the game is fair,then the loss is fair also. A good sportsman like my friend neverobjects to pay what he has lost."
"But you evidently object to pay for him, eh?" he sneered.
"I do not," I protested. "If it were double the amount I would pay it.Only I first want to know what he actually owes."
"That he'll tell you when he returns. Yet I can't see why you shouldobject to make out the cheque now, and hand it to us on his arrival.I'll prepare the receipt, at any rate. I, for one, want to get off tobed."
And the speaker sat down in one of the chairs at the card-table, andwrote out a receipt for the amount, signing it "Charles Reckitt"across the stamp he stuck upon it.
Then presently he rose impatiently, and, crossing the room,exclaimed--
"How long are we to be humbugged like this? I've got to get out toCroydon--and it's late. Come on, Forbes. Let's go over and dig Marloweout, eh?"
So the pair left the room, promising to return with Jack in a fewminutes, and closed the door after them.
When they had gone, I sat for a moment reflecting. I did not like thelook of either of them. Their faces were distinctly sinister and theirmanner overbearing. I felt that the sooner I left that silent housethe better.
So, crossing to the table, I drew out my cheque-book, and hastilywrote an open cheque, payable to "Charles Reckitt," for one thousandone hundred and ten pounds. I did so in order that I should have itin readiness on Jack's return--in order that we might get awayquickly.
Whatever possessed my friend to mix with such people as those I couldnot imagine.
A few moments later, I had already put the cheque back into mybreast-pocket, and was re-seated in the arm-chair, when of a sudden,and apparently of its own accord, the chair gave way, the two armsclosing over my knees in such a manner that I was tightly held there.
It happened in a flash. So quickly did it collapse that, for a moment,I was startled, for the chair having tipped back, I had lost mybalance, my head being lower than my legs.
And at that instant, struggling in such an undignified position andunable to extricate myself, the chair having closed upon me, the doorsuddenly opened, and the man Reckitt, with his companion Forbes,re-entered the room.
Hushed Up! A Mystery of London Page 7
