Blue Hand

by Edgar Wallace

  He could strike at Jim through the girl, could befoul the soul that Jim Steele loved best in the world. That would be a noble revenge, he thought, as he sat, pen in hand, and heard her light footsteps pass up the stairs. But he must be patient and the game must be played cautiously. He must gain her confidence. That was essential, and the best way of securing this end, was to make no reference to these meetings, to give her the fullest opportunity for seeing Jim Steele and to avoid studiously any suggestion that he himself had an interest in her.

  He had not sought an interview with his mother. She had been sleeping all the afternoon, the nurse had told him, and he felt that he could be patient here also. At night, when he saw the girl at dinner, he made a reference to the scene she had witnessed in the old woman’s sitting-room.

  “You’ll think I’m an awful cad, Miss Weldon,” he said frankly, “but mother has a trick of making me more angry than any other person I have met. You look upon me as a very unfilial son?” he smiled.

  “We do things we’re ashamed of sometimes when we are angry,” said Eunice, willing to find an excuse for the outburst. She would have gladly avoided the topic altogether, for her conscience was pricking her and she felt guilty when she remembered that she had spoken to Jim on the subject. Digby Groat was to make her a little more uncomfortable by his next remark.

  “It is unnecessary for me to tell you, Miss Weldon,” he said, with his smile, “that all which happens within these four walls is confidential. I need not express any fear that you will ever speak to an outsider about our affairs.”

  He had only to look at the crimson face, at the downcast eyes and the girl’s fingers playing nervously with the silver, to realize that she had already spoken of the will, and again he cursed himself for his untimely exhibition of temper.

  He passed on, to the girl’s great relief, to another subject. He was having certain alterations made in his laboratory and was enthusiastic about a new electrical appliance which he had installed.

  “Would you like to see my little den, Miss Weldon?” he asked.

  “I should very much,” said the girl.

  She was, she knew, being despicably insincere. She did not want to see the laboratory. To her, since Jim had described the poor little dog who had been stretched upon the table, it was a place of horror. But she was willing to agree to anything that would take Digby Groat from the topic of the will, and the thought of her own breach of faith.

  There was nothing very dreadful in the laboratory, she discovered. It was so white and clean and neat that her womanly instinct for orderliness could admire the well-arranged little room, with its shelves packed with bottles, its delicate glass retorts and its strange and mysterious instruments.

  He did not open the locked doors that hid one cupboard which stood at one end of the laboratory, so she knew nothing of the grisly relics of his investigations. She was now glad she had seen the place, but was nevertheless as pleased to return to the drawing-room.

  Digby went out at nine o’clock and she was left alone to read and to amuse herself as best she could. She called at Mrs. Groat’s room on her way up and learnt from the nurse that the old lady was rapidly recovering.

  “She will be quite normal tomorrow or the next day,” said the nurse.

  Here was another relief. Mrs. Groat’s illness had depressed the girl. It was so terrible to see one who had been as beautiful as the miniature proved her to have been, struck down and rendered a helpless mass, incapable of thought or movement.

  Her room, which had impressed her by its beauty the day she had arrived, had now been enhanced by the deft touches which only a woman’s fingers can give. She had read some of the books which Digby Groat had selected for her entertainment, and some she had dipped into only to reject.

  She spent the evening with The Virginian, and here Digby had introduced her to one of the most delightful creations of fiction. The Virginian was rather like Jim, she thought—but then all the heroes of all the books she read were rather like Jim.

  Searching in her bag for her handkerchief her fingers closed on the little card which had been left on her table the night of her introduction to the Grosvenor Square household. She took it out and read it for the twentieth time, puzzling over the identity of the sender and the object he had in view.

  What was the meaning of that little card, she wondered? And what was the story which lay behind it?

  She put down her book and, rising, switched on the lamp over her writing-table, examining the card curiously. She had not altered her first impression that the hand had been made by a rubber stamp. It was really a beautiful little reproduction of an open palm and every line was distinct. Who was her mysterious friend—or was he a friend? She shook her head. It could not be Jim, and yet—it worried her even to think of Jim in this connection. Whoever it was, she thought with a little smile, they had been wrong. She had not left the house and nothing had happened to her, and she felt a sense of pride and comfort in the thought that the mysterious messenger could know nothing of Jim, her guardian angel.

  She heard a step in the passage and somebody knocked at her door. It was Digby Groat. He had evidently just come in.

  “I saw your light,” he said, “so I thought I would give you something I have brought back from the Ambassadors’ Club.”

  The “something” was a big square box tied with lavender ribbon.

  “For me?” she said in surprise.

  “They were distributing them to the guests,” he said, “and I thought you might have a taste for sweeties. They are the best chocolates in England.”

  She laughed and thanked him. He made no further attempt to continue the conversation, but, with a nod, went to his room. She heard the door open and close, and five minutes later it opened again and his soft footsteps faded away.

  He was going to his laboratory, she thought, and wondered, with a shiver, what was the experiment he was attempting that night.

  She had placed the box on the table and had forgotten about it until she was preparing for bed, then she untied the pretty ribbons and displayed the contents.

  “They’re delicious,” she murmured, and took one up in her fingers.

  Thump!

  She turned quickly and dropped the chocolate from her fingers.

  Something had hit against her window, it sounded like a fist. She ran to the silken curtains which covered the glass doors from view and hesitated nervously for a moment; then with a little catch of breath she thought that possibly some boys had thrown a ball.

  She pulled back the curtains violently and for a moment saw nothing. The balcony was clear and she unfastened the latch and stepped out. There was nobody in sight. She looked on the floor of the balcony for the object which had been thrown but could find nothing.

  She went slowly back to her room and was closing the door when she saw and gasped. For on one of the panes was the life-size print of the Blue Hand!

  Again that mysterious warning!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EUNICE gazed at the hand spell-bound, but she was now more curious than alarmed. Opening the window again she felt gingerly at the impression. It was wet, and her fingertip was stained a deep greasy blue, which wiped off readily on her handkerchief. Again she stepped out on to the balcony, and following it along, came to the door leading to the head of the stairs. She tried it. It was locked. Leaning over the parapet she surveyed the square. She saw a man and a woman walking along and talking together and the sound of their laughter came up to her. At the corner of the square she saw passing under a street-lamp a helmeted policeman who must, she calculated, have been actually in front of the house when the imprint was made.

  She was about to withdraw to her room when, looking down over the portico, she saw the figure of a woman descending the steps of the house. Who was she? Eunice knew all the servants by now and was certain this woman was a stranger. She might, of course, be one of Digby Groat’s friends or a friend of the nurse, but her subsequent movements were so un
usual that Eunice was sure that this was the mysterious stranger who had left her mark on the window. So it was a woman, after all, thought Eunice in amazement, as she watched her cross the square to where a big limousine was waiting.

  Without giving any instructions to the chauffeur, the woman in black stepped into the car, which immediately moved off.

  Eunice came back to the room and sat down in a chair to try to straighten her tangled mind. That hand was intended as a warning, she was sure of that. And now it was clear which way the visitor had come. She must have entered the house by the front door and have got on to the balcony through the door on the landing, locking it after her when she made her escape.

  Looking in the glass, Eunice saw that her face was pale, but inwardly she felt more thrilled than frightened, and she had also a sense of protection, for instinctively she knew that the woman was a friend. Should she go downstairs and tell Digby Groat? She shook her head at the thought. No, she would reserve this little mystery for Jim to unravel. With a duster, which she kept in one of the cupboards, she wiped the blue impression from the window and then sat down on the edge of her bed to puzzle out the intricate and baffling problem.

  Why had the woman chosen this method of warning her? Why not employ the mundane method of sending her a letter? Twice she had taken a risk to impress Eunice with the sense of danger, when the same warning might have been conveyed to her through the agency of the postman.

  Eunice frowned at this thought, but then she began to realize that, had an anonymous letter arrived, she would have torn it up and thrown it into her waste-paper basket. These midnight visitations were intended to impress upon the girl the urgency of the visitor’s fear for her.

  It was not by any means certain that the woman who had left the house was the mysterious visitor. Eunice had never troubled to inquire into Digby Groat’s character, nor did she know any of his friends. The lady in black might well have been an acquaintance of his, and to tell Digby of the warning and all that she had seen could easily create a very embarrassing situation for all concerned.

  She went to bed, but it was a long time before sleep came to her. She dozed and woke and dozed again and at last decided to get up. She pulled aside the curtains to let in the morning light. The early traffic was rumbling through the street, and the clear fragrance of the unsullied air came coldly as she stood and shivered by the open window. She was hungry, as hungry as a healthy girl can be in that keen atmosphere, and she bethought herself of the box of chocolates which Digby had brought to her. She had taken one from its paper wrapping and it was between her teeth when she remembered with a start that the warning had come at the very moment she was about to eat a chocolate! She put it down again thoughtfully, and went back to bed to pass the time which must elapse before the servants were about and any kind of food procurable.

  Jim Steele was about to leave his little flat in Featherdale Mansions that morning when he was met at the door by a district messenger carrying a large parcel and a bulky letter. He at once recognized the handwriting of Eunice and carried the parcel into his study. The letter was written hurriedly and was full of apologies. As briefly as possible Eunice had related the events of the night.

  “I cannot imagine that the chocolates had anything to do with it, but somehow you are communicating your prejudice against Digby Groat to me. I have no reason whatever to suspect him of any bad design toward me, and in sending these I am merely doing as you told me, to communicate everything unusual. Aren’t I an obedient girl! And, please, Jim, will you take me out to dinner tonight. It is ‘my night out,’ and I’d love to have a leisurely meal with you, and I’m simply dying to talk about the Blue Hand! Isn’t it gorgeously mysterious! What I shall try to catch up some of my arrears of sleep this afternoon so that I shall be fresh and brilliant.” (She had written “and beautiful” in mockery but had scratched it out.)

  Jim Steele whistled. Hitherto he had regarded the Blue Hand as a convenient and accidental method which the unknown had chosen for his or her signature. Now, however, it obtained a new significance. The Blue Hand had been chosen deliberately and for some reason which must be known to one of the parties concerned. To Digby Groat? Jim shook his head. Somehow he knew for certain that the Blue Hand would be as much of a mystery to Digby Groat as it was to the girl and himself. He had no particular reason for thinking this. It was one of those immediate instincts which carry their own conviction. But who else was concerned? He determined to ask his partner that morning if the Blue Hand suggested anything to him.

  In the meantime there were the chocolates. He examined the box carefully. The sweetmeats were beautifully arranged and the box bore the label of a well-known West End confectioner. He took out three or four of the chocolates, placed them carefully in an envelope, and put the envelope in his pocket. Then he set forth for the city. As he closed his own door his eye went to the door on the opposite side of the landing, where dwelt Mrs. Fane and the mysterious Madge Benson. The door was ajar and he thought he heard the woman’s voice on the ground floor below talking to the porter of the flats.

  His foot was extended to descend the first of the stairs when from the flat came a sharp scream and a voice: “Madge, Madge, help!”

  Without a second’s hesitation he pushed open the door and ran down the passage. There were closed doors on either side, but the last on the right was open and a thin cloud of smoke was pouring forth. He rushed in, just as the woman, who was lying on the bed, was rising on her elbow as though she were about to get up, and tearing down the blazing curtains at one of the windows, stamped out the fire. It was all over in a few seconds and he had extinguished the last spark of fire from the blackened lace before he looked round at the occupant of the bed, who was staring at him wide-eyed.

  She was a woman of between forty and forty-five, he judged, with a face whose delicate moulding instantly impressed him. He thought he had seen her before, but knew that he must have been mistaken. The big eyes, grey and luminous, the dark brown hair in which a streak of grey had appeared, the beautiful hands that lay on the coverlet, all of these he took in at one glance.

  “I’m very greatly obliged to you, Mr. Steele,” said the lady in a voice that was little above a whisper. “That is the second accident we have had. A spark from one of the engines must have blown in through the open window.”

  Just beneath her was the cutting of the London, Midland and Scottish Railway, and Jim, who had watched the heavily laden trains toiling slowly and painfully up the steep incline, had often wondered if there was any danger from the showers of sparks which the engines so frequently threw up.

  “I must apologize for my rather rough intrusion,” he said with his sweet smile. “I heard your screams. You are Mrs. Fane, aren’t you?”

  She nodded, and there was admiration in the eyes that surveyed his well-knit figure.

  “I won’t start a conversation with you under these embarrassing circumstances,” said Jim with a laugh, “but I’d like to say how sorry I am that you are so ill, Mrs. Fane. Could I send you some more books?”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “You have done almost enough.”

  He heard the door close as the servant, unconscious that anything was wrong, came in, and heard her startled exclamation as she smelt the smoke. Coming out into the passage he met Madge Benson’s astonished face.

  A few words explained his presence and the woman hustled him to the door a little unceremoniously.

  “Mrs. Fane is not allowed to see visitors, sir,” she said. “She gets so excited.”

  “What is the matter with her?” asked Jim, rather amused at the unmistakable ejection.

  “Paralysis in both legs,” said Madge Benson, and Jim uttered an exclamation of pity.

  “Don’t think I’m not grateful to you, Mr. Steele,” said the woman earnestly; “when I saw that smoke coming out into the passage my heart nearly stopped beating. That is the second accident we have had.”

  She was so anxious for him to be off that
he made no attempt to continue talking.

  So that was Mrs. Fane, thought Jim, as he strode along to his office. A singularly beautiful woman. The pity of it! She was still young and in the bloom of health save for this terrible affliction.

  Jim had a big heart for suffering humanity, and especially for women and children on whom the burden of sickness fell. He was halfway to the office when he remembered that Mrs. Fane had recognized him and called him by name! How could she have known him—she who had never left her sick-room?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Mr. Groat will not be down to breakfast. He was working very late, miss.”

  Eunice nodded. She preferred the conversation of Digby Groat to the veiled familiarity of his shrewd-faced servant. It would be difficult for her to define in what way Jackson offended her. Outwardly he was respect itself, and she could not recall any term or word he had employed to which she could reasonably take offence. It was the assurance of the man, his proprietorial attitude, which irritated her. He reminded her of a boarding-house at which she had once stayed, where the proprietor acted as butler and endeavoured, without success, to combine the deference of the servant with the authority of the master.

  “You were out very early this morning, miss,” said Jackson with his sly smile as he changed her plates.

  “Is there any objection to my going out before breakfast?” asked Eunice, her anger rising.

  “None at all, miss,” said the man blandly. “I hope I haven’t offended you, only I happened to see you coming back.”

  She had been out to send the parcel and the letter to Jim, the nearest district messenger office being less than a quarter of a mile from Grosvenor Square. She opened her lips to speak and closed them again tightly. There was no reason in the world why she should excuse herself to the servant.