The chimney she could see at a glance was impossible. Even if she could have climbed it, the opening above the fireplace was too small to allow her to pass.
There being no windows, there remained only the skylight. Could she get out through the skylight?
She lay back on the bed, gazing up at the cobweb-covered square and calculating her chances. If she moved the bed beneath it, put the old box supplied as a washstand on the bed and put the chair on the box, she might be able to reach high enough. Suddenly eager, she sat up, listening intently. Not a sound reached her from the house. She decided to try the experiment at once. Her head still throbbed from the effects of the blow and she would rather have lain still. But the faint hope which had been aroused nerved her to effort.
Moving quietly and making as little noise as possible, she pulled the bed to the necessary position and built her tower. A moment later she was looking through the glass.
There was nothing much within view. A vast area of sky and the tops of a row of distant trees alone were visible. And when she tried to push up the skylight a further disappointment awaited her. It was fastened. Through one of the holes in the handle a screw had been passed. She tried to move the screw, but it was too firmly fixed.
For a moment she thought of breaking the glass, but she saw immediately that the metal bars of the frame were too close for her to squeeze between them. Baffled, she got down and stood thinking.
There seemed to be nothing that she could do. Slowly she took down the chair and the table and pushed the bed back to its place. She lay down, her thoughts approaching more nearly to despair than at any time since her capture. Oh, how she wished she had minded French’s warning! What a fool she had been to imagine that she could stand up against members of a gang of this kind! What reason had she to imagine she was abler or cleverer than Thurza Darke? Oh, if when she saw Style she had just passed on with a bow and smile! If only she had done that she might now be sitting in her pay box at the Panopticon! She had been bored to tears with that box times without number, but now how she longed for it! She would have given all she possessed to be once more within its familiar walls. But no wishing would get her there.
Slowly the interminable hours dragged away, while the square of sunshine from the skylight crept across the wall, narrowed to a line and disappeared. Presently she realised that she was hungry. She had had no lunch and now it was after five o’clock. Surely they couldn’t mean to starve her?
While she was considering the idea she dropped into a light sleep. She was roused by the rattling of the key in the door and sat up blinking as Style entered with a tray on which was set out a plain but sufficient supper.
‘Asleep?’ he said in some surprise. ‘It’s well for you that you can take your position so easily! Or is it that you have not realised its seriousness?’ He paused, then stepping nearer, spoke in a low, eager tone.
‘Look here, you little fool. Once again I offer you your life and your freedom in exchange for your information. Tell me fully and without reserve of all your dealings with French and I’ll let you go. You’ll be taken in the car to a deserted place in the country and left to walk to the nearest station. Come on now; don’t lose your last chance.’
Molly, nerving herself to resist, did not reply. Style put down the tray and spoke with extreme earnestness. ‘For heaven’s sake, Molly Moran, don’t be such a fool! Thurza Darke got this chance and didn’t take it. She’s dead now. Don’t think I’m bluffing when I assure you that you’ll die too if you don’t do what I want. I offer you the choice of that or of freedom. Don’t be such a darned fool!’
For a moment, Molly was tempted to tell of her interviews with French. Then something in his face, a look in his eyes, assured her that she was being deceived. There was no mercy there. He would never let her go. Her only hope was French. The thought of French cheered her and she rallied her courage.
‘It’s your fate that is sealed,’ she declared confidently. ‘Mr French knows all about you. You’ve been warning me, now I’ll warn you. If anything happens to me, you’ll hang! That’s the way things are, Mr Style. Mr French knows all about Thurza Darke and he’s taken precautions to prevent you repeating that. There’s my warning to you.’
Brave words, and yet Molly had scarcely spoken them before she felt sick with terror. It was a ghastly mistake to have said that about Thurza Darke! If Style believed it, it would remove her, Molly’s, chief safeguard. If this gang thought the murder of Thurza could be brought home to them it would not save them to spare Molly. The penalty was the same for one murder as for two.
But this point of view did not seem to strike Style. He shook his head.
‘Very well, fool,’ he snarled. ‘If you want to commit suicide, you can,’ and turning on his heel, he strode out, slamming and locking the door.
In spite of her almost frantic state of mind Molly felt a good deal better when she had finished the plate of cold roast beef and the bottle of cider which she found on the tray. If she could but get news of her whereabouts through to French she would be almost happy. Oh, to know that he was on the way to her help! Was there nothing that she could do?
Once again she lay down on the bed while she racked her brains over the problem. Was there nothing that she could do?
For an hour and more she tossed, then once again she heard footsteps and the door was unlocked. This time it was Gwen Lestrange. She carried a pair of sheets, a can of hot water, soap and other toilet requisites.
‘Here you are, you little fool,’ she said contemptuously as she dumped her burden on the floor. ‘You don’t deserve these, but we are not so bad as you imagine. But I warn you that unless you do as we want, you’ll not need them by tomorrow night.’
She did not wait for a reply, but went out quickly, locking the door after her.
Though Gwen’s manner was so ungracious, the articles she had brought made a deal of difference to Molly. After a wash and brush-up she felt so much happier that when a little later she spread the sheets on her bed and turned in, she found herself actually comfortable. Then her anxiety and fatigues brought their own recompense and she slept dreamlessly. Indeed, when she woke it was broad daylight.
About eight o’clock Gwen brought her some breakfast and then began another weary and interminable day. She would not have believed how slowly time could pass. Hour after hour she lay on her bed, racking her brains over the problem of escape. Tales she had read of imprisoned heroines recurred to her, but in all of them some valiant young man had invariably appeared in the nick of time and had carried out the rescue. But in her case there was no such hero. She had herself to depend on and no one else in the world.
Except French. Again and again she pictured French following along that endless road from London. Momentarily she expected to hear of his arrival. But still the interminable silence remained unbroken.
Suddenly an idea flashed into her mind and she lay still, wondering whether there could be anything in it. The more she thought, the less sanguine she grew. However, it was better than nothing. A forlorn hope, but still a hope.
Again eagerly listening, she once more built her tower on the bed. Once more she climbed to the skylight. From her pocket she produced a penny. Could she turn the screw with it?
Alas, no! The edge was too wide to enter the slot. One encouraging fact however, she noticed which she had missed before. The wood round the screw was decayed. If only she could get something to fit the slot she felt sure the screw would not be hard to turn.
Twenty minutes wrestling with the problem brought her another gleam of hope. Going to the fireplace, she knelt down and began rubbing the edge of the penny on the hearthstone. And then hope changed once more to eagerness. The penny was deeply scratched. With perseverance she was sure she could rub its edge thin enough.
But she had not counted on the labour involved. She rubbed till her whole body ached before she succeeded. And then it was only to find that owing to the curve in the penny’s edge it rose out of th
e slot when she tried to turn it.
This problem, however, was easier. Another exhausting period of rubbing on the hearthstone and she had ground a flat place on the disc, long enough to meet her purpose.
Few would blame her that she shed a few tears when, after all her weary work, she found she was still no nearer her goal. She could not turn the penny. But once more she pulled herself together. She had gone so far she would not be beaten. And very little further thought gave her the solution.
While she was considering some better way of gripping her penny, her eyes fell on the tongs. They were old-fashioned with a hinge and flat meeting faces, not the more modern spring kind with claw ends. It was the work of a few seconds to grip the penny in the tongs and try again.
But even yet she was not through. She found she could not hold the tongs tightly enough to prevent them opening. But she would not be beaten. Looking round in desperation her eye fell on the broken leg of the bedstead. In a moment she was kneeling on the floor unwinding the cord which held it in place. Another few seconds and the legs of the tongs were tightly tied on the penny and she was again trying the great experiment. Her joy may be imagined when this time her improvised screwdriver worked!
The screw removed, she eagerly raised the skylight and looked out. But at the sight which met her eyes, her tears once again overflowed. All her work was unavailing. She was no better off.
Away from her the smooth slates of the roof stretched in every direction, from the ridge above to the gutter beneath and to the capping of the eaves to right and left. From where she stood the roof seemed like a great sloping table-land suspended in mid-air. It had no visible connection with the earth, which appeared beyond the gutter far below and a long way off. She thought she must be at the back of the house for there was no road or drive in sight. She was looking down into fields, behind which was a wood, forming the horizon. No human being was in sight nor even a house. So far as she could see, she might be the only remaining human being in the world.
No chance of escaping that way. She could not stand on that slope. With a thrill of horror she imagined herself climbing out, letting go the skylight frame, slipping down the smooth slates to the gutter, gripping it frantically, missing it … She shuddered. No, there was no hope that way. Nor was there any use in her making signals of distress. No one was there to see them.
Bitterly disappointed, she stood staring out, watching lest by chance some wanderer might appear in the fields whose attention she might be able to attract. But no one came.
Presently it occurred to her that the time for the evening meal must be near. Useless as this open skylight seemed, it would be wiser to keep the knowledge of it to herself. She therefore closed the sash, put back the screw loosely, replaced the furniture, took her screwdriver to pieces and lay down on the bed.
Only just in time! She had scarcely settled down when Gwen appeared with the meal.
Then followed a perfectly interminable night. This time she had not the necessary physical fatigue to make her sleep and she tossed restlessly during the long, dark hours. But morning came at last and with it breakfast and the prospect of another endless day.
She wondered what the plans of the trio could be. Gwen’s threat as to her end coming before the previous evening had not been fulfilled. Either their plans had miscarried or Gwen had been bluffing. Reassuring, for what it was worth. But they could not keep her alive and a prisoner indefinitely. They must, she imagined, be waiting for some development, though what form it might take she could not imagine.
Like a century, the day dragged out its weary course. Lunch came, then Gwen with water, then supper, and still no ray of light or hope appeared to the girl. Then just as she was preparing for another long night of wakeful tossing, she got a new idea.
It was far more in the nature of a forlorn hope than the last, still, she reminded herself, it was a hope. But if she were to carry out her plan she must lose no time. It would be dark in less than an hour.
Now breathlessly excited, she jumped from the bed, took Christina Wyatt’s old manuscript book, and cutting the thread which bound it, carefully withdrew some of the unused sheets. The double pages were of fair size, some fifteen inches by nine. Now, could she remember how to fold them? Once down the middle, the long way; then two corners back to the middle fold; then … For a time she experimented until at last there lay before her a dart like those she had made in hundreds in her schooldays. Eagerly she stood up and threw it. It floated gently across the room.
Mass production was now the order of the day. There were thirty-seven clean double pages in the book and in a few minutes thirty-seven darts lay in a little pile on the bed. As she folded, Molly thought out the message they would bear, so that by the time they were ready she had decided on the wording. Taking her fountain pen, she wrote on the top of each: ‘Finder for God’s sake ’phone Victoria 7000 that Molly Moran is in this big house. Her life is at stake.’
By this time it was getting dusk. As quickly and silently as possible Molly rebuilt her tower beneath the skylight, withdrew the screw and opened the frame. Then taking up a bunch of darts, she began to launch them one by one.
There was a gentle wind blowing towards the left. This picked up the darts and carried them well away from the house, over towards the fields. They floated well, and though most of them disappeared from view below the line of the roof, she saw some actually strike the ground.
The thirty-seven disposed of, she stood looking out, hoping against hope that someone would appear and get her message. But though she waited till it was quite dark, no one came in sight. At last with a profound sigh she closed the skylight, put the furniture in its place and lay down once more.
The reaction from her previous excitement had now set in and her depression became greater than ever. The darts, she felt, were no good. No one would find them and if anyone did he would think the message some child’s prank and take no notice. Or, and this was a disaster which she had not thought of before, Gwen or Style might find them. What would happen to her then? And all the time in the background was the feeling of sick dread and horror when she thought of the fate of Thurza Darke. In the daytime there had been the excitement of what was happening to keep her up. Now there was nothing. She learned the awful loneliness of fear.
Fortunately from sheer exhaustion she fell asleep quite soon. But it seemed to her that her eyes had scarcely closed when she was awakened by a knocking at her door.
‘Get up quickly,’ came Gwen’s voice. ‘We’re moving on. You must be ready in ten minutes. Here is a lamp.’
The door opened, a small electric lamp was pushed in and the door was relocked.
Molly looked at her watch. It was still early—only half past eleven. What was now afoot? Had her time come?
She had not fully undressed, and almost sick with terror, she put on the remainder of her things. But she had not much time to think. Before she was ready Gwen returned, accompanied by Style. In silence they seized her and before she realised what was happening, her wrists and ankles were rebound, the gag thrust into her mouth and a handkerchief tied over her eyes. She felt herself being lifted and carried down the six flights of stairs and along passages to what was evidently a door, for the night air blew on her face. Then she was placed on a seat, she imagined in the same car as before, the engine was started up and they moved off. After a few yards they stopped and she heard above the noise of the running engine the clang of a gate, someone got in and sat down beside her and they moved off.
18
When Greek Meets Greek
It was shortly after eleven o’clock on that same night that the news came to Inspector French. Fed up with the whole business and tired out, he was actually on his way upstairs when his telephone rang.
‘News of Miss Moran, sir,’ came the voice of the sergeant on duty at the Yard. ‘Hold the line and I’ll put you through.’ There was a pause and then another voice sounded.
‘Is that Victoria 7000? If so, I have
a message for you.’
‘That’s right. Repeat your message, please.’
‘I’m speaking from near Guildford. Between eight and nine my little nipper was coming home through a field and he found some paper darts with this message written on each: “Finder for God’s sake phone Victoria 7000 that Molly Moran is in this big house. Her life at stake.” We took it for a joke, but I am ringing up on chance.’
French wiped a film of sweat off his forehead.
‘It’s no joke, I can assure you. This is Scotland Yard and we know something of the affair. Tell me, please, who you are and where you’re speaking from.’
An expression of amazed concern came through, then the voice went on: ‘I am Mr Edward Boland, speaking from my house, Dehra Dun, Elmford. I—I hope it’s all right?’
‘I hope so,’ French returned grimly. ‘Tell me, where is the big house mentioned?’
‘It’s at the other end of the village; Mr Trevellian’s, the novelist’s.’
‘Now, Mr Boland, could you lend a hand at your end? It may save the girl’s life. How far are you from the police station?’
‘It’s in the village, five minutes walk from here.’
‘Good. Will you take the darts there and hand them to whoever is on duty and tell him your story. Tell him that you have rung me up, Inspector French, C.I.D., and say that I shall be going down immediately. Can you manage that?’
‘Of course, Inspector. I’ll do it now.’
Ten seconds after Boland had rung off, French was talking to the Yard.
‘Get six men together at once, Deane, and two cars with petrol for a long run. I want to go to Guildford. I’ll be with you by the time you’re ready. And look sharp, for goodness’ sake! It’s more then urgent.’
By a lucky chance French picked up a taxi almost at his own door, and soon he was giving his instructions to Deane in person.
Inspector French and the Box Office Murders Page 19
