Blue Hand

by Edgar Wallace

  Eunice Weldon had packed her small wardrobe and the cab was waiting at the door. She had no regrets at leaving the stuffy untidy lodging which had been her home for two years, and her farewell to her dishevelled landlady, who seemed always to have dressed in a violent hurry, was soon over. She could not share Jim Steele’s dislike of her new employers. She was too young to regard a new job as anything but the beginning of an adventure which held all sorts of fascinating possibilities. She sighed as she realized that the little tea-table talks which had been so pleasant a feature of her life were now to come to an end, and yet—surely he would make some effort to see her again?

  She would have hours—perhaps half-days to herself, and then she remembered with dismay that she did not know his address! But he would know hers. That thought comforted her, for she wanted to see him again. She wanted to see him more than she had ever dreamt she would. She could close her eyes, and his handsome face, those true smiling eyes of his, would look into hers. The swing of his shoulders as he walked, the sound of his voice as he spoke—every characteristic of his was present in her mind.

  And the thought that she might not see him again!

  “I will see him—I will!” she murmured, as the cab stopped before the imposing portals of No. 409, Grosvenor Square.

  She was a little bewildered by the army of servants who came to her help, and just a little pleased by the deference they showed to her.

  “Mrs. Groat will receive you, miss,” said a swarthy-looking man, whose name she afterwards learnt was Jackson.

  She was ushered into a small back drawing-room which seemed poorly furnished to the girl’s eye, but to Mrs. Groat was luxury.

  The old woman resented the payment of a penny that was spent on decoration and furniture, and only the fear of her son prevented her from disputing every account which was put before her for settlement. The meeting was a disappointment to Eunice. She had not seen Mrs. Groat except in the studio, where she was beautifully dressed. She saw now a yellow-faced old woman, shabbily attired, who looked at her with dark disapproving eyes.

  “Oh, so you’re the young woman who is going to be my secretary, are you?” she quavered dismally. “Have they shown you your room?”

  “Not yet, Mrs. Groat,” said the girl.

  “I hope you will be comfortable,” said Mrs. Groat in a voice that suggested that she had no very great hopes for anything of the sort.

  “When do I begin my duties?” asked Eunice, conscious of a chill.

  “Oh, any time,” said the old woman off-handedly.

  She peered up at the girl.

  “You’re pretty,” she said grudgingly, and Eunice flushed. Somehow that compliment sounded like an insult. “I suppose that’s why,” said Mrs. Groat absently.

  “Why what?” asked the girl gently.

  She thought the woman was weak of intellect and had already lost whatever enthusiasm she had for her new position.

  “Nothing,” said the old woman, and with a nod dismissed her.

  The room into which Eunice was shown left her speechless for a while.

  “Are you sure this is mine?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yes, miss,” said the housekeeper with a sidelong glance at the girl.

  “But this is beautiful!” said Eunice.

  The room would have been remarkable if it had been in a palace. The walls were panelled in brocade silk and the furniture was of the most beautiful quality. A small French bed, carved and gilded elaborately, invited repose. Silk hangings hung at either side of the head, and through the French windows she saw a balcony gay with laden flower-boxes. Under her feet was a carpet of blue velvet pile that covered the whole of the room. She looked round open-mouthed at the magnificence of her new home. The dressing-table was an old French model in the Louis Quinze style, inlaid with gold, and the matching wardrobe must have been worth a fortune. Near one window was a lovely writing-table, and a well-filled bookcase would almost be within reach of her hand when she lay in bed.

  “Are you sure this is my room?” she asked again.

  “Yes, miss,” said the housekeeper, “and this,” she opened a door, “is your bathroom. There is a bath to every room. Mr. Groat had the house reconstructed when he came into it.”

  The girl opened one of the French windows and stepped on to the balcony which ran along to a square and larger balcony built above the porch of the house. This, she discovered, opened from a landing above the stairs.

  She did not see Mrs. Groat again that afternoon, and when she inquired she discovered that the old lady was lying down with a bad headache. Nor was she to meet Digby Groat. Her first meal was eaten in solitude.

  “Mr. Groat has not come back from the country,” explained Jackson, who waited on her. “Are you comfortable, miss?”

  “Quite, thank you,” she said.

  There was an air about this man which she did not like. It was not that he failed in respect, or that he was in any way familiar, but there was something proprietorial in his attitude. It almost seemed as though he had a financial interest in the place, and she was glad when her meal was finished. She went straight up to her room a little dissatisfied that she had not met her employer. There were many things which she wanted to ask Mrs. Groat; and particularly did she wish to know what days she would be free.

  Presently she switched out the light, and opening the French windows, stepped out into the cool, fragrant night. The after-glow of the sun still lingered in the sky. The square was studded with lights; an almost incessant stream of motor-car traffic passed under her window, for Grosvenor Square is the short cut between Oxford Street and Piccadilly.

  The stars spangled the clear sky with a million specks of quivering light. Against the jewelled robe of the northern heavens, the roofs and steeples and stacks of London had a mystery and wonder which only the light of day could dispel. And in the majestic solitude of the night, Eunice’s heart seemed to swell until she could scarcely breathe. It was not the magic of stars that brought the blood flaming to her face; nor the music of the trees. It was the flash of understanding that one half of her, one splendid fragment of the pattern on which her life was cut, was somewhere there in the darkness asleep perhaps—thinking of her, she prayed. She saw his face with startling distinctness, saw the tender kindness of his eyes, felt on her moist palm the pressure of those strong brown fingers….

  With a sigh which was half a sob, she closed the window and drew the silken curtains, shutting out the immortal splendours of nature from her view.

  Five minutes later she was asleep.

  How long she slept she did not know. It must have been hours, she thought. The stream of traffic had ceased and there was no sound from outside, save the distant hoot of a motor-horn. The room was in darkness, and yet she was conscious that somebody was there!

  She sat up in bed and a cold shiver ran down her spine. Somebody was in the room! She reached out to turn on the light and could have shrieked, for she touched a hand, a cold, small hand that was resting on the bedside table. For a second she was paralysed and then the hand was suddenly withdrawn. There was a rustle of curtain rings and the momentary glimpse of a figure against the lesser gloom of the night, and, shaking in every limb, she leapt from the bed and switched on the light. The room was empty, but the French window was ajar.

  And then she saw on the table by her side, a grey card. Picking it up with shaking hands she read:

  “One who loves you, begs you for your life and honour’s sake to leave this house.”

  It bore no other signature than a small blue hand. She dropped the card on the bed and stood staring at it for a while, and then, slipping into her dressing-gown, she unlocked the door of her room and went out into the passage. A dim light was burning at the head of the stairs. She was terror-stricken, hardly knew what she was doing, and she seemed to fly down the stairs.

  She must find somebody, some living human creature, some reality to which she could take hold. But the house was silent. The hall la
mp was burning, and by its light she saw the old clock and was dimly conscious that she could hear its solemn ticking. It was three o’clock. There must be somebody awake in the house. The servants might still be up, she thought wildly, and ran down a passage to what she thought was the entrance to the servants’ hall. She opened a door and found herself in another passage illuminated by one light at the farther end, where further progress was arrested by a white door. She raced along until she came to the door and tried to open it. There was no handle and it was a queer door. It was not made of wood, but of padded canvas.

  And then as she stood bewildered, there came from behind the padded door a squeal of agony, so shrill, so full of pain, that her blood seemed to turn to ice.

  Again it shrieked, and turning she fled back the way she had come, through the hall to the front door. Her trembling fingers fumbled at the key and presently the lock snapped and the door flew open. She staggered out on to the broad steps of the house and stopped, for a man was sitting on the head of those steps.

  He turned his face as the door opened, and in the light from the hall he was revealed. It was Jim Steele!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JIM came stumbling to his feet, staring in blank amazement at the unexpected apparition, and for a moment thus they stood, facing one another, the girl stricken dumb with fear and surprise.

  She thought he was part of a dreadful dream, an image that was conjured by her imagination and would presently vanish.

  “Jim—Mr. Steele!” she gasped.

  In a stride he was by her side, his arm about her shoulders.

  “What is wrong?” he asked quickly, and in his anxiety his voice was almost harsh.

  She shuddered and dropped her face on his breast.

  “Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful!” she whispered, and he heard the note of horror in her low voice.

  “May I ask what is the meaning of this?” demanded a suave voice, and with a start the girl turned.

  A man was standing in the doorway and for a second she did not recognize him. Even Jim, who had seen Digby Groat at close quarters, did not know him in his unusual attire. He was dressed in a long white overall which reached from his throat to his feet; over his head was a white cap which fitted him so that not a particle of his hair could be seen. Bands of white elastic held his cuffs close to his wrists and both hands were hidden in brown rubber gloves.

  “May I again ask you, Miss Weldon, why you are standing on my doorstep in the middle of the night, attired in clothes which I do not think are quite suitable for street wear? Perhaps you will come inside and explain,” he said stepping back. “Grosvenor Square is not quite used to this form of midnight entertainment.”

  Still clutching Jim’s arm, the girl went slowly back to the passage and Digby shut the door.

  “And Mr. Steele, too,” said Digby with ironic surprise, “you’re a very early caller.”

  Jim said nothing. His attention was wholly devoted to the girl. She was trembling from head to foot, and he found a chair for her.

  “There are a few explanations due,” he said coolly, “but I rather think they are from you, Mr. Groat.”

  “From me?’” Mr. Groat was genuinely unprepared for that demand.

  “So far as my presence is concerned, that can be explained in a minute,” said Jim. “I was outside the house a few moments ago when the door swung open and Miss Weldon ran out in a state of abject terror. Perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Groat, why this lady is reduced to such a condition?”

  There was a cold menace in his tone which Digby Groat did not like to hear.

  “I have not the slightest idea what it is all about,” he said. “I have been working in my laboratory for the last half-hour, and the first intimation I had that anything was wrong was when I heard the door open.”

  The girl had recovered now, and some of the colour had returned to her face, yet her voice shook as she recited the incidents of the night, both men listening attentively.

  Jim took particular notice of the man’s attitude, and he was satisfied in his mind that Digby Groat was as much in ignorance of the visit to the girl’s room as he himself. When she had finished, Groat nodded.

  “The terrifying cry you heard from my laboratory,” he smiled, “is easily explained. Nobody was being hurt; at least, if he was being hurt, it was for his own good. When I came back to my house tonight, I found my little dog had a piece of glass in its paw, and I was extracting it.”

  She drew a sigh of relief.

  “I’m so sorry I made such a fuss,” she said penitently, “but I—I was frightened.”

  “You are sure somebody was in your room?” asked Digby.

  “Absolutely certain.” She had not told him about the card.

  “They came through the French window from the balcony?” She nodded.

  “May I see your room?”

  She hesitated for a moment.

  “I will go in first to tidy it,” she said. She remembered the card was on the bed, and she was particularly anxious that it should not be read.

  Uninvited Jim Steele followed Digby upstairs into the beautiful room. The magnificence of the room, its hangings and costly furniture, did not fail to impress him, but the impression he received was not favourable to Digby Groat.

  “Yes, the window is ajar. You are sure you fastened it?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Yes. I left both fanlights down to get the air,” she pointed above, “but I fastened these doors. I distinctly remember that.”

  “But if this person came in from the balcony,” said Digby, “how did he or she get there?”

  He opened the French door and stepped out into the night, walking along the balcony until he came to the square space above the porch. There was another window here which gave on to the landing at the head of the stairs. He tried it—it was fastened. Coming back through the girl’s room he discovered that not only was the catch in its socket, but the key was turned.

  “Strange,” he muttered.

  His first impression had been that it was his mother who, with her strange whims, had been searching the room for some trumpery trinket which had taken her fancy. But the old woman was not sufficiently agile to climb a balcony, nor had she the courage to make a midnight foray.

  “My own impression is that you dreamt it, Miss Weldon,” he said, with a smile. “And now I advise you to go to bed and to sleep. I’m sorry that you’ve had this unfortunate introduction to my house.”

  He had made no reference to the providential appearance of Jim Steele, nor did he speak of this until they had said good night to the girl and had passed down the stairs into the hall again.

  “Rather a coincidence, your being here, Mr. Steele,” he said. “What were you doing? Studying dactylology?”

  “Something like that,” said Jim coolly.

  Mr. Digby Groat searched for a cigarette in his pocket and lit it.

  “I should have thought that your work was so arduous that you would not have time for early morning strolls in Grosvenor Square.”

  “Would you really?” said Jim, and then suddenly Digby laughed.

  “You’re a queer devil,” he said. “Come along and see my laboratory.”

  Jim was anxious to see the laboratory, and the invitation saved him from the necessity of making further reference to the terrifying cry which Eunice had heard.

  They turned down a long passage through the padded door and came to a large annexe, the walls of which were of white glazed brick. There was no window, the light in the daytime being admitted through a glass roof. Now, however, these were covered by blue blinds and the room owed its illumination to two powerful lights which hung above a small table. It was not an ordinary table; its legs were of thin iron, terminating in rubber-tyred castors. The top was of white enamelled iron, with curious little screw holds occurring at intervals.

  It was not the table so much as the occupant which interested Jim. Fastened down by two iron bands, one of which was about its neck and on
e about the lower portion of its body, its four paws fastened by thin cords, was a dog, a rough-haired terrier who turned its eyes upon Jim with an expression of pleading so human that Jim could almost feel the message that the poor little thing was sending.

  “Your dog, eh?” said Jim.

  Digby looked at him.

  “Yes,” he said. “Why?”

  “Haven’t you finished taking the glass out of his paw?”

  “Not quite,” said the other coolly.

  “By the way, you don’t keep him very clean,” Jim said.

  Digby turned.

  “What the devil are you hinting at?” he asked.

  “I am merely suggesting that this is not your dog, but a poor stray terrier which you picked up in the street half an hour ago and enticed into this house.”

  “Well?”

  “I’d save you further trouble by saying that I saw you pick it up.”

  Digby’s eyes narrowed.

  “Oh, you did, did you?” he said softly. “So you were spying on me?”

  “Not exactly spying on you,” said Jim calmly, “but merely satisfying my idle curiosity.”

  His hand fell on the dog and he stroked its ears gently.

  Digby laughed.

  “Well, if you know that, I might as well tell you that I am going to evacuate the sensory nerve. I’ve always been curious to—”

  Jim looked round.

  “Where is your anaesthetic?” he asked gently, and he was most dangerous when his voice sank to that soft note.

  “Anaesthetic? Good Lord,” scoffed the other, “you don’t suppose I’m going to waste money on chloroform for a dog, do you?”

  His fingers rested near the poor brute’s head and the dog, straining forward, licked the torturer’s hand.

  “Filthy little beast!” said Digby, picking up a towel.

  He took a thick rubber band, slipped it over the dog’s mouth and nose.

  “Now lick,” he laughed; “I think that will stop his yelping. You’re a bit chicken-hearted, aren’t you, Mr. Steele? You don’t realize that medical science advances by its experiments on animals.”

  “I realize the value of vivisection under certain conditions,” said Jim quietly, “but all decent doctors who experiment on animals relieve them of their pain before they use the knife; and all doctors, whether they are decent or otherwise, receive a certificate of permission from the Board of Trade before they begin their experiments. Where is your certificate?”