Blue Hand

by Edgar Wallace

  The man he had called Masters unlocked the big door and ushered him into the house.

  The neglect was here apparent. As he stepped into the big bleak entrance he heard the scurry and scamper of tiny feet and smiled.

  “You’ve got some rats here?”

  “Rats?” said Masters in a tone of resignation, “there’s a colony of them, sir. It is as much as I can do to keep them out of my quarters, but there’s nothing in the east wing,” he hastened to add. “I had a couple of terriers and ferrets here for a month keeping them down, and they’re all on this side of the house.” He jerked his head to the right.

  “Is the flying gentleman here?”

  “He’s having breakfast, sir, at this minute.”

  Digby followed the caretaker down a long gloomy passage on the ground floor, and passed through the door that the man opened.

  The bearded Villa nodded with a humorous glint in his eye as Digby entered. From his appearance and dress, he had evidently arrived by aeroplane.

  “Well, you got here,” said Digby, glancing at the huge meal which had been put before the man.

  “I got here,” said Villa with an extravagant flourish of his knife. “But only by the favour of the gods. I do not like these scout machines: you must get Bronson to pilot it back.”

  Digby nodded, and pulling out a rickety chair, sat down.

  “I have given instructions for Bronson to come here—he will arrive tonight,” he said.

  “Good,” muttered the man, continuing his meal.

  Masters had gone, and Villa was listening to the receding sound of his footsteps upon the uncovered boards, before he asked:

  “What is the idea of this, governor? You are not changing headquarters?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Digby shortly, “but the Seaford aerodrome is under observation. At least, Steele knows, or guesses, all about it. I have decided to hire some commercial pilots to give an appearance of genuine business to the company.”

  Villa whistled.

  “This place is no use to you, governor,” he said, shaking his head. “They’d tumble to Kennett Hall—that’s what you call it, isn’t it?” He had an odd way of introducing slang words into his tongue, for he spoke in Spanish, and Digby smiled at “tumble.”

  “You’re becoming quite an expert in the English language, Villa.”

  “But why are you coming here?” persisted the other. “This could only be a temporary headquarters. Is the game slipping?” he asked suddenly.

  Digby nodded.

  “It may come to a case of sauve qui peut,” he said, “though I hope it will not. Everything depends upon—” He did not finish his sentence, but asked abruptly: “How far is the sea from here?”

  “Not a great distance,” was the reply. “I travelled at six thousand feet and I could see the Bristol Channel quite distinctly.”

  Digby was stroking his chin, looking thoughtfully at the table.

  “I can trust you, Villa,” he said, “so I tell you now, much as you dislike these fast machines, you’ve got to hold yourself in readiness to pilot me to safety. Again, I say that I do not think it will come to flight, but we must be prepared. In the meantime, I have a commission for you,” he said. “It was not only to bring the machine that I arranged for you to come to this place.”

  Villa had guessed that.

  “There is a man in Deauville to whom you have probably seen references in the newspapers, a man named Maxilla. He is a rich coffee planter of Brazil.”

  “The gambler?” said the other in surprise, and Digby nodded.

  “I happen to know that Maxilla has had a very bad time—he lost nearly twenty million francs in one week, and that doesn’t represent all his losses. He has been gambling at Aix and at San Sebastian, and I should think he is in a pretty desperate position.”

  “But he wouldn’t be broke,” said Villa, shaking his head. “I know the man you mean. Why, he’s as rich as Croesus! I saw his yacht when you sent me to Havre. A wonderful ship, worth a quarter of a million. He has hundreds of square miles of coffee plantations in Brazil—”

  “I know all about that,” said Digby impatiently. “The point is, that for the moment he is very short of money. Now, do not ask me any questions, Villa: accept my word.”

  “What do you want me to do?” asked the man. “Go to Deauville, take your slow machine and fly there; see Maxilla—you speak Portuguese?”

  Villa nodded.

  “Like a native,” he said. “I lived in Lisbon—”

  “Never mind where you lived,” interrupted Digby, unpleasantly. “You will see Maxilla, and if, as I believe, he is short of money, offer him a hundred thousand pounds for his yacht. He may want double that, and you must be prepared to pay it. Maxilla hasn’t the best of reputations, and probably his crew—who are all Brazilians by the way—will be glad to sail under another flag. If you can effect the purchase, send me a wire, and order the boat to be brought round to the Bristol Channel to be coaled.”

  “It is an oil-running ship,” said Villa.

  “Well, it must take on supplies of oil and provisions for a month’s voyage. The captain will come straight to me in London to receive his instructions. I dare say one of his officers can bring the boat across. Now, is that clear to you?”

  “Everything is clear to me, my dear friend,” said Villa blandly, “except two things. To buy a yacht I must have money.”

  “That I will give you before you go.”

  “Secondly,” said Villa, putting the stump of his forefinger in his palm, “where does poor August Villa come into this?”

  “You get away as well,” said Digby.

  “I see,” said Villa.

  “Maxilla must not know that I am the purchaser under any circumstances,” Digby went on. “You may either be buying the boat for yourself in your capacity as a rich Cuban planter, or you may be buying it for an unknown friend. I will arrange to keep the captain and the crew quiet as soon as I am on board. You leave for Deauville tonight.”

  He had other preparations to make. Masters received an order to prepare two small rooms and to arrange for beds and bedding to be erected, and the instructions filled him with consternation.

  “Don’t argue with me,” said Digby angrily. “Go into Bristol, into any town, buy the beds and bring them out in a car. I don’t care what it costs. And get a square of carpet for the floor.”

  He tossed a bundle of notes into the man’s band, and Masters, who had never seen so much money in his life, nearly dropped them in sheer amazement.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  DIGBY GROAT returned to town by car and reached Grosvenor Square in time for dinner. He had a hasty meal and then went up to his room and changed.

  He passed the room that Eunice occupied and found Jackson sitting on a chair before the door.

  “She’s all right,” said the man, grinning. “I’ve shuttered and padlocked the windows and I’ve told her that if she doesn’t want me to make friendly calls she has to behave.”

  Digby nodded.

  “And my mother—you gave her the little box?”

  Again Jackson grinned.

  “And she’s happy,” he said. “I never dreamt she was a dope, Mr. Groat—”

  “There is no need for you to dream anything,” said Digby sharply.

  He had a call to make. Lady Waltham was giving a dance that night, and there would be present two members of the syndicate whom he was to meet on the following morning. One of these drew him aside during the progress of the dance.

  “I suppose those transfers are quite in order for tomorrow,” he said.

  Digby nodded.

  “Some of my people are curious to know why you want cash,” he said, looking at Digby with a smile.

  The other shrugged his shoulders.

  “You seem to forget, my dear man,” he said suavely, “that I am merely an agent in these matters, and that I am acting for my rather eccentric mother. God bless her!”

  “That is
the explanation which had occurred to me,” said the financier. “The papers will be in order, of course? I seem to remember you saying that there was another paper which had to be signed by your mother.”

  Digby remembered with an unspoken oath that he had neglected to secure this signature. As soon as he could, he made his excuses and returned to Grosvenor Square.

  His mother’s room was locked, but she heard his gentle tap.

  “Who is that?” she demanded in audible agitation.

  “It is Digby.”

  “I will see you in the morning.”

  “I want to see you tonight,” interrupted Digby sharply. “Open the door.”

  It was some time before she obeyed. She was in her dressing-gown, and her yellow face was grey with fear.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, mother,” said Digby, closing the door behind him, “but I have a document which must be signed tonight.”

  “I gave you everything you wanted,” she said tremulously, “didn’t I, dear? Everything you wanted, my boy?”

  She had not the remotest idea that he was disposing of her property.

  “Couldn’t I sign it in the morning?” she pleaded. “My hand is so shaky.”

  “Sign it now,” he almost shouted, and she obeyed.

  The Northern Land Syndicate was but one branch of a great finance corporation, and had been called into existence to acquire the Danton properties. In a large, handsomely furnished board-room, members of the syndicate were waiting. Lord Waltham was one; Hugo Vindt, the bluff, good-natured Jewish financier, whose fingers were in most of the business pies, was the second; and Felix Strathellan, that debonair man-about-town, was the important third—for he was one of the shrewdest land speculators in the kingdom.

  A fourth member of the party was presently shown in in the person of the Scotch lawyer, Bennett, who carried under his arm a black portfolio, which he laid on the table.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said shortly. Millionaires’ syndicates had long failed to impress him.

  “Good morning, Bennett,” said his lordship. “Have you seen your client this morning?”

  Mr. Bennett made a wry face as he unstrapped the portfolio.

  “No, my lord, I have not,” he said, and suggested by his tone that he was not at all displeased that he had missed a morning interview with Digby Groat.

  “A queer fellow is Groat,” said Vindt with a laugh. “He is not a business man, and yet he has curiously keen methods. I should never have guessed he was an Englishman: he looks more like a Latin, don’t you think. Lord Waltham?”

  His lordship nodded.

  “A queer family, the Groats,” he said. “I wonder how many of you fellows know that his mother is a kleptomaniac?”

  “Good heavens,” said Strathellan in amazement, “you don’t mean that?”

  His lordship nodded.

  “She’s quite a rum old lady now,” he said, “though there was a time when she was as handsome a woman as there was in town. She used to visit us a lot, and invariably we discovered, when she had gone, that some little trinket, very often a perfectly worthless trifle, but on one occasion a rather valuable bracelet belonging to my daughter, had disappeared with her. Until I realized the true condition of affairs it used to worry me, but the moment I spoke to Groat, the property was restored, and we came to expect this evidence of her eccentricity. She’s a lucky woman,” he added.

  “I wouldn’t say that with a son like Digby,” smiled Strathellan, who was drawing figures idly on his blotting-pad.

  “Nevertheless, she’s lucky,” persisted his lordship. “If that child of the Dantons hadn’t been killed, the Groats would have been as poor as Church mice.”

  “Did you ever meet Lady Mary, my lord?” asked Vindt.

  Lord Waltham nodded.

  “I met Lady Mary and the baby,” he said quietly; “I used to be on dining terms with the Dantons. And a beautiful little baby she was.”

  “What baby is this?” asked a voice.

  Digby Groat had come in in his noiseless fashion, and closed the door of the board-room softly behind him. The question was the first intimation they had of his presence, all except Lord Waltham, who, out of the corner of his eye, had seen his entrance.

  “We were talking about Lady Mary’s baby, your cousin.”

  Digby Groat smiled contemptuously.

  “It will not profit us very much to discuss her.” he said.

  “Do you remember her at all, Groat?” asked Waltham.

  “Dimly,” said Digby with a careless shrug. “I’m not frightfully keen, on babies. I have a faint recollection that she was once staying in our house, and I associate her with prodigious howling! Is everything all right, Bennett?”

  Bennett nodded.

  “Here is the paper you asked for.” Digby took it from his pocket and laid it before the lawyer, who unfolded it leisurely and read it with exasperating slowness.

  “That is in order,” he said. “Now, gentlemen, we will get to business.”

  Such of them who were not already seated about the table, drew up their chairs.

  “Your insistence upon having the money in cash has been rather a nuisance, Groat,” said Lord Waltham, picking up a tin box from the floor and opening it. “I hate to have a lot of money in the office; it has meant the employment of two special watchmen.”

  “I will pay,” said Digby good-humouredly, watching with greedy eyes as bundle after bundle of notes was laid upon the table.

  The lawyer twisted round the paper and offered him a pen.

  “You will sign here, Mr. Groat,” he said.

  At that moment Vindt turned his head to the clerk who had just entered.

  “For me?” he said, indicating the letter in the man’s hand.

  “No, sir, for Mr. Bennett.”

  Bennett took the note, looked at the name embossed upon the flap, and frowned.

  “From Salter,” he said, “and it is marked ‘urgent and important.’”

  “Let it wait until after we have finished the business,” said Digby impatiently.

  “You had better see what it is,” replied the lawyer, and took out a typewritten sheet of paper. He read it through carefully.

  “What is it?” asked Digby.

  “I’m afraid this sale cannot go through,” answered the lawyer slowly. “Salter has entered a caveat against the transfer of the property.”

  Livid with rage Digby sprang to his feet.

  “What right has he?” he demanded savagely. “He is no longer my lawyer: he has no right to act. Who authorized him?”

  The lawyer had a queer expression on his face.

  “This caveat,” he said, speaking deliberately, “has been entered by Salter on behalf of Dorothy Danton, who, according to the letter, is still alive.”

  There was a painful silence, which the voice of Vindt broke.

  “So that settles the transfer,” he said. “We cannot go on with this business, you understand, Groat?”

  “But I insist on the transfer going through,” cried Digby violently. “The whole thing is a plot got up by that dithering old fool, Salter. Everybody knows that Dorothy Danton is dead! She has been dead for twenty years.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Lord Waltham quietly, “we cannot move in face of the caveat. Without being a legal instrument, it places upon the purchasers of the property the fullest responsibility for their purchase.”

  “But I will sign the transfer,” said Digby vehemently.

  Lord Waltham shook his head.

  “It would not matter if you signed twenty transfers,” he said. “If we paid you the money for this property and it proved to be the property of Miss Danton, as undoubtedly it would prove, if she were alive, we, and only we, would be responsible. We should have to surrender the property and look to you to refund us the money we had invested in the estate. No, no, Groat, if it is, as you say, a bluff on the part of Salter—and upon my word, I cannot imagine a man of Salter’s position, age and experience
putting up empty bluff—then we can have a meeting on another day and the deal can go through. We are very eager to acquire these properties.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from both Strathellan and Vindt.

  “But at present, as matters stand, we can do nothing, and you as a business man must recognize our helplessness in the matter.”

  Digby was beside himself with fury as he saw the money being put back in the tin box.

  “Very well,” he said. His face was pallid and his suppressed rage shook him as with an ague. But he never lost sight of all the possible developments of the lawyer’s action. If he had taken so grave a step in respect to the property, he would take action in other directions, and no time must be lost if he was to anticipate Salter’s next move.

  Without another word he turned on his heel and stalked down the stairs into the street. His car was waiting.

  “To the Third National Bank,” he said, as he flung himself into its luxurious interior.

  He knew that at the Third National Bank was a sum nearly approaching a hundred thousand pounds which his parsimonious mother had accumulated during the period she had been in receipt of the revenues of the Danton estate. Viewing the matter as calmly as he could, he was forced to agree that Salter was not the man who would play tricks or employ the machinery of the law, unless he had behind him a very substantial backing of facts. Dorothy Danton! Where had she sprung from? Who was she? Digby cursed her long and heartily. At any rate, he thought, as his car stopped before the bank premises, he would be on the safe side and get his hands on all the money which was lying loose.

  He wished now that when he had sent Villa to Deauville he had taken his mother’s money for the purchase of the gambler’s yacht. Instead of that he had drawn upon the enormous funds of the Thirteen.

  He was shown into the manager’s office, and he thought that that gentleman greeted him a little coldly.

  “Good morning, Mr. Stevens, I have come to draw out the greater part of my mother’s balance, and I thought I would see you first.”

  “I’m glad you did, Mr. Groat,” was the reply. “Will you sit down?” The manager was obviously ill at ease. “The fact is,” he confessed, “I am not in a position to honour any cheques you draw upon this bank.”