Blue Hand

by Edgar Wallace

  “I’m going to stay another month with the Groats,” she informed him, “and then if Mrs. Groat doesn’t find some real work for me to do I’m going back to the photographers’—if they’ll have me.”

  “I know somebody who wants you more than the photographer,” he said quietly, “somebody whose heart just aches whenever you pass out of his sight.”

  She felt her own heart beating thunderously, and the hand that he held under the cover of the table trembled.

  “Who is that—somebody?” she asked faintly.

  “Somebody who will not ask you to marry him until he can offer you an assured position,” said Jim. “Somebody who loves the very ground you walk upon so much that he must have carpets for your dear feet and a mansion to house you more comfortably than the tiny attic overlooking the London, Midland and Scottish Railway.”

  She did not speak for a long time, and he thought he had offended her. The colour came and went in her face, the soft rounded bosom rose and fell more quickly than was usual, and the hand that he held closed so tightly upon his fingers that they were almost numb when she suddenly released her hold.

  “Jim,” she said, still averting her eyes, “I could work very well on bare boards, and I should love to watch the London, Midland and Scottish trains—go past your attic.”

  She turned her head to his and he saw that her eyes were bright with tears.

  “If you’re not very careful, Jim Steele,” she said, with an attempt at raillery, “I shall propose to you!”

  “May I smoke?” said Jim huskily, and when she nodded, and he lit his match, she saw the flame was quivering in his shaking hand.

  She wondered what made him so quiet for the rest of the evening. She could not know that he was stunned and shaken by the great fortune that had come to him, that his heart was as numb with happiness as his fingers had been in the pressure of her hand.

  When they drove back to the house that night she wanted him to take her in his arms in the darkness of the cab and crush her against his breast: she wanted to feel his kisses on her lips, her eyes. If he had asked her at that moment to run away with him, to commit the maddest folly, she would have consented joyously, for her love for the man was surging up like a bubbling stream of subterranean fire that had found its vent, overwhelming and burning all reason, all tradition.

  Instead, he sat by her side, holding her hand and dreaming of the golden future which awaited him.

  “Good night, Jim.” Her voice sounded cold and a little dispirited as she put her gloved hand in his at the door of 409.

  “Good night,” he said in a low voice, and kissed her hand. She was nearly in tears when she went into her room and shut the door behind her. She walked to her dressing-table and looked in the glass, long and inquiringly, and then she shook her head. “I wish he wasn’t so good,” she said, “or else more of a hero!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JIM continued his journey to the flat, so enveloped in the rosy clouds which had descended upon him that he was unconscious of time or space, and it seemed that he had only stepped into the cab when it jerked to a halt before the portals of Featherdale Mansions. He might have continued in his dream without interruption had not the cabman, with some asperity, called him back to remind him that he had not paid his fare.

  That brought him back to the earth.

  As he was about to open the outer door of the flats (it was closed at eleven every night) the door opened of its own accord and he stepped back to allow a lady to pass. She was dressed from head to foot in black and she passed him without a word, he staring after her as she walked with quick steps to a motor-car that he had noticed drawn up a few yards from where his cab had stopped. Who was she? he wondered as the car passed out of sight.

  He dismissed her from his thoughts, for the glamour of the evening was not yet passed, and for an hour he sat in his big chair, staring into vacancy and recalling every incident of that previous evening. He could not believe it was true that this half-divine being was to be his; and then, with a deep sigh, he aroused himself to a sense of reality.

  There was work to be done, he thought, as he rose to his feet, and it was work for her. His income was a small one, and must be considerably augmented before he dare ask this beautiful lady to share his lot.

  He glanced idly at the table. That afternoon he had been writing up his notes of the case and the book was still where he had left it, only—

  He could have sworn he had left it open. He had a remarkable memory for little things, tiny details of placements and position, and he was sure the book had not only been closed, but that its position had been changed.

  A woman came in the mornings to clean the flat and make his bed and invariably he let her in himself. She usually arrived when he was making his own breakfast—another fad of his. She had no key, and under any circumstances never came at night.

  He opened the book and almost jumped.

  Between the pages, marking the place where he had been writing, was a key of a peculiar design. Attached to the handle was a tiny label on which was written: “D.G.‘s master key.”

  This time there was no sign of the Blue Hand, but he recognized the writing. It was the same which had appeared on the warning card which the girl had received.

  The woman in black had been to his flat—and had left him the means to enter Digby Groat’s premises!

  “Phew!” whistled Jim in amazement.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EUNICE woke in the morning with a queer little sense of disappointment. It was not until she was thoroughly awake, sitting up in bed and sipping the fragrant tea which the maid had brought her, that she analysed the cause. Then she laughed at herself.

  “Eunice Weldon,” she said, shaking her head sadly, “you’re a bold woman! Because the best man in the world was too good, too silly, or too frightened, to kiss you, you are working up a grievance. In the first place, Eunice Weldon, you shouldn’t have proposed to a man. It was unladylike and certain to lead to your feeling cheap. You should have been content to wait for the beautiful carpet under your feet and the mansion over your head, and should have despised the bare boards of an attic overlooking the railway. I don’t suppose they are bare boards, Eunice,” she mused. “They are certain to be very nicely covered and there will be all sorts of mementos of Jim’s campaigns hanging on the walls or tucked away in odd little cupboards. And I’m sure, when the trains are not rattling past, that the view from the window is beautiful, and, anyway, I shouldn’t have time to look out of the window. There would be Jim’s shirts to mend, Jim’s socks to darn, and—Eunice Weldon, get up!” she said hurriedly as she slipped out of bed.

  Going along the corridor Digby Groat heard the sound of her fresh young voice singing in the bathroom, and he smiled.

  The ripe beauty of the girl had come on him with a rush. She was no longer desirable, she was necessary. He had intended to make her his plaything, he was as determined now that she should be his decoration. He laughed aloud at the little conceit! A decoration! Something that would enhance him in the eyes of his fellows. Even marriage would be a small price to pay for the possession of that jewel.

  Jackson saw him smiling as he came down the stairs.

  “Another box of chocolates has arrived, sir,” he said in a low voice, as though he were imparting a shameful secret.

  “Throw them in the ashpit, or give them to my mother,” said Digby carelessly, and Jackson stared at him.

  “Aren’t you—” he began.

  “Don’t ask so many questions, Jackson.” Digby turned his glittering eyes upon his servant and there was an ugly look in his face. “You are getting just a little too interested in things, my friend. And whilst we are on this matter, let me say, Jackson, that when you speak to Miss Weldon I want you to take that damned grin off your face and talk as a servant to a lady; do you understand that?”

  “I’m no servant,” said the man sullenly.

  “That is the part you are playing now, so play
it,” said Digby, “and don’t sulk with me, or—”

  His hand went up to a rack hanging on the wall, where reposed a collection of hunting-crops, and his fingers closed over the nearest.

  The man started back.

  “I didn’t mean anything,” he whined, his face livid. “I’ve tried to be respectful—”

  “Get my letters,” said Digby curtly, “and bring them into the dining-room.”

  Eunice came into the room at that moment.

  “Good morning. Miss Weldon,” said Digby, pulling out her chair from the table. “Did you have a nice dinner?”

  “Oh, splendid,” she said, and then changed the conversation.

  She was dreading the possibility of his turning the conversation to the previous night, and was glad when the meal was finished.

  Digby’s attitude, however, was most correct. He spoke of general topics, and did not touch upon her outing, and when she went to Mrs. Groat’s room to play at work, for it was only playing, the real work had been done, he did not, as she feared he might, follow her.

  Digby waited until the doctor called, and waylaying him in the passage learnt that his mother had completely recovered, and though a recurrence of the stroke was possible, it was not immediately likely. He had a few words to say to her that morning.

  Old Mrs. Groat sat by the window in a wheeled chair, a huddled, unlovely figure, her dark gloomy eyes surveyed without interest the stately square with its green leafy centrepiece. The change of seasons had for her no other significance than a change of clothing. The wild heart which once leapt to the call of spring, beat feebly in a body in which passion had burnt itself to bitter ashes. And yet the gnarled hands, crossing and re-crossing each other on her lap, had once touched and blessed as they had touched and blasted.

  Once or twice her mind went to this new girl, Eunice Weldon. There was no ray of pity in her thought. If Digby wanted the girl, he would take her, and her fate interested old Jane Groat no more than the fate of the fly that buzzed upon the window, and whom a flick of her handkerchief presently swept from existence. There was more reason why the girl should go if… she frowned. The scar on the wrist was much bigger than a sixpence. It was probably a coincidence.

  She hoped that Digby would concentrate on his new quest and leave her alone. She was mortally afraid of him, fearing in her own heart the length to which he would go to have his will. She knew that her life would be snuffed out, like the flame of a candle, if it were expedient for Digby to remove her. When she had recovered consciousness and found herself in charge of a nurse, her first thought had been of wonder that Digby had allowed her to revive. He knew nothing of the will, she thought, and a twisted smile broke upon the lined face. There was a surprise in store for him. She would not be there to see it, that was the pity. But she could gloat in anticipation over his chagrin and his impotent rage.

  The handle of the door turned and there followed a whispered conversation. Presently the door closed again.

  “How are you this morning, mother?” said the pleasant voice of Digby, and she blinked round at him in a flutter of agitation.

  “Very well, my boy, very well,” she said tremulously. “Won’t you sit down?” She glanced nervously about for the nurse, but the woman had gone. “Will you tell the nurse I want her, my boy?” she began.

  “The nurse can wait,” said her dutiful son coolly. “There are one or two things I want to talk to you about before she returns. But principally I want to know why you executed a will in favour of Estremeda and left me with a beggarly twenty thousand pounds to face the world?”

  She nearly collapsed with the shock.

  “A will, my boy?” She whined the words. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “The will which you made and put into that secret drawer of your cabinet,” he said patiently, “and don’t tell me that I’m dreaming, or that you did it for a joke, or that it was an act of mental aberration on your part. Tell me the truth!”

  “It was a will I made years ago, my dear,” she quavered. “When I thought twenty thousand pounds was all the money I possessed.”

  “You’re a liar,” said Digby without heat. “And a stupid old liar. You made that will to spite me, you old devil!”

  She was staring at him in horror.

  Digby was most dangerous when he talked in that cool, even tone of his.

  “I have destroyed the precious document,” said Digby Groat in the same conversational voice, “and when you see Miss Weldon, who witnessed its destruction, I would be glad if you would tell her that the will she saw consumed was one which you made when you were not quite right in your head.”

  Mrs. Groat was incapable of speech. Her chin trembled convulsively and her only thought was how she could attract the attention of the nurse.

  “Put my chair back against the bed, Digby,” she said faintly. “The light is too strong.”

  He hesitated, but did as she asked, then seeing her hand close upon the bell-push which hung by the side of the bed, he laughed.

  “You need not be afraid, mother,” he said contemptuously, “I did not intend taking any other action than I have already taken. Remember that your infernal nurse will not be here all the time, and do as I ask you. I will send Miss Weldon up to you in a few minutes on the excuse of taking instructions from you and answering some letters which came for you this morning. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, and at that moment the nurse came in.

  Summoned to the sick-room, Eunice found her employer looking more feeble than she had appeared before she was stricken down. The old woman’s eyes smouldered their hate, as the girl came into the room. She guessed it was Eunice who had discovered the will and loathed her, but fear was the greater in her, and after the few letters had been formally answered, Mrs. Groat stopped the girl, who was in the act of rising.

  “Sit down again, Miss Weldon,” she said. “I wanted to tell you about a will of mine that you found. I’m very glad you discovered it. I had forgotten that I had made it.”

  Every word was strained and hateful to utter.

  “You see, my dear young woman, I sometimes suffer from a curious lapse of memory, and—and—that will was made when I was suffering from an attack—”

  Eunice listened to the halting words and was under the impression that the hesitation was due to the old woman’s weakness.

  “I quite understand, Mrs. Groat,” she said sympathetically. “Your son told me.”

  “He told you, did he?” said Jane Groat, returning to her contemplation of the window; then, when Eunice was waiting for her dismissal, “Are you a great friend of my son’s?”

  Eunice smiled.

  “No, not a great friend, Mrs. Groat,” she said.

  “You will be,” said the woman, “greater than you imagine,” and there was such malignity in the tone that the girl shuddered.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JIM loved London, the noise and the smell of it. He loved its gentle thunders, its ineradicable good-humour, its sublime muddle. Paris depressed him, with its air of gaiety and the underlying fierceness of life’s struggle. There was no rest in the soul of Paris. It was a city of strenuous bargaining, of ruthless exploitation. Brussels was a dumpy undergrown Paris, Berlin a stucco Gomorrah, Madrid an extinct crater beneath which a new volcanic stream was seeking a vent.

  New York he loved, a city of steel and concrete teeming with sentimentalists posing as tyrants. There was nothing quite like New York in the world. Dante in his most prodigal mood might have dreamt New York and da Vinci might have planned it, but only the high gods could have materialized the dream or built to the master’s plan. But London was London—incomparable, beautiful. It was the history of the world and the mark of civilization. He made a detour and passed through Covent Garden.

  The blazing colour and fragrance of it! Jim could have lingered all the morning in the draughty halls, but he was due at the office to meet Mr. Salter.

  Almost the first question that the
lawyer asked him was:

  “Have you investigated Selengers?”

  The identity of the mysterious Selengers had been forgotten for the moment, Jim admitted.

  “You ought to know who they are,” said the lawyer. “You will probably discover that Groat or his mother are behind them. The fact that the offices were once the property of Danton rather supports this idea—though theories are an abomination to me!”

  Jim agreed. There were so many issues to the case that he had almost lost sight of his main object.

  “The more I think of it,” he confessed “the more useless my search seems to me, Mr. Salter. If I find Lady Mary, you say that I shall be no nearer to frustrating the Groats?”

  Mr. Septimus Salter did not immediately reply. He had said as much, but subsequently had amended his point of view. Theories, as he had so emphatically stated, were abominable alternatives to facts, and yet he could not get out of his head that if the theory he had formed to account for Lady Mary Danton’s obliteration were substantiated, a big step would have been taken toward clearing up a host of minor mysteries.

  “Go ahead with Selengers,” he said at last; “possibly you may find that their inquiries are made as much to find Lady Mary as to establish the identity of your young friend. At any rate, you can’t be doing much harm.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AT twelve o’clock that night Eunice heard a car draw up in front of the house. She had not yet retired, and she stepped out on to the balcony as Digby Groat ascended the steps.

  Eunice closed the door and pulled the curtains across. She was not tired enough to go to bed. She had very foolishly succumbed to the temptation to take a doze that afternoon, and to occupy her time she had brought up the last bundle of accounts, unearthed from a box in the wine-cellar, and had spent the evening tabulating them.

  She finished the last account, and fixing a rubber band round them, rose and stretched herself, and then she heard a sound; a stealthy foot upon the stone of the balcony floor. There was no mistaking it. She had never heard it before on the occasion of the earlier visits. She switched out the light, drew back the curtains noiselessly and softly unlocked the French window. She listened. There it was again. She felt no fear, only the thrill of impending discovery. Suddenly she jerked open the window and stepped out, and for a time saw nothing, then as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw something crouching against the wall.