The Hand of Fear

by Gerald Verner

  Mr. Ebbs’s thin lips twitched as he saw the impression which his visitor had created, and he grunted. ‘This is Miss Lesley Thane,’ he said. ‘She only arrived in England yesterday afternoon.’ He turned his head towards the girl. ‘Miss Thane, this is Mr. Street, our crime man.’

  She smiled as Farringdon acknowledged the introduction. ‘How do you do?’ she said, and her voice had the sweet, low quality of the well-bred college girl, with only the faintest tinge of an accent that rather added to its charm.

  ‘Miss Thane brought a letter of introduction to the chief,’ explained Mr. Ebbs, ‘and he referred her to me. I don’t know whether we shall be able to help her, but I want you to do all you can.’

  Farringdon nodded. He was wondering what kind of help this girl was in need of.

  ‘It’s about my uncle, Mr. Street,’ she said. ‘I’ve already told Mr. Ebbs. You have probably heard of him: Felix Dexon.’

  Farringdon’s eyes widened. ‘Felix Dexon!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is he your uncle? Yes, I certainly have heard of him. So has most of the world.’

  Two years before, the papers had been full of Felix Dexon. An American by birth, he had come to England for a rest cure, and six months after he had reached London had vanished from the face of the earth. But although from that time to the present no one had set eyes on him, they had heard from him. His lawyers in New York had received a letter informing them that he was away on a tour, and instructing them to draw his quarterly income from his bank and forward it to the Credit Donne, in Paris. Dexon had made a lot of money in real estate at the time of the boom, and this he had reinvested in first-class shares and securities. His income was enormous, amounting to nearly four hundred thousand a year.

  For some time after his disappearance his American lawyers had transferred the quarterly payments to the Paris bank as instructed. And then, hearing nothing more from him, had got suspicious and refused to transfer any more without further instructions. Their answer came in the form of a stiff letter from Dexon telling them that if he liked to keep his whereabouts secret it was his own affair, but unless they complied with his wishes he would place his affairs in the hands of another firm. The letter was, without any doubt, in his own handwriting and bore his usual signature. The lawyers could do nothing but capitulate, and since then his income had been regularly paid to the Credit Donne in Paris.

  The cheques which had been presented at this bank had been subjected to the scrutiny of a handwriting expert, whose report had been that the signatures were genuine. The cheques were nearly all made payable to self and were accompanied by a note authorising the manager to send the money under registered packet to various hotels. These letters had apparently been posted all over the world, for each postmark bore the stamp of a different country.

  Nothing had ever been seen of the missing man since his disappearance from London, and the papers, after giving much prominence to the eccentricity of the wealthy American, had let the matter die down, other and more topical sensations taking its place in their columns.

  Farringdon Street had been greatly interested at the time, and he regarded the slim girl before him with freshened attention. ‘How do you think we can help you?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘You see, I am rather worried about Uncle Felix. I don’t think he’s staying away of his own accord. And neither do his lawyers. I’ve had interviews with them, and, like me, they’re under the impression that something has happened to him. The editor the New York Courier is a great friend of mine, and I said I was coming to England to see if I could find anything that would throw a light on Uncle’s disappearance. He suggested that I should come to the Morning Herald. He is a personal friend of Lord Cornfield. It’s useless going to the police because they could do nothing. Scotland Yard have been cabled repeatedly, but say that there is no evidence to prove that Uncle Felix met with foul play, and that if he likes to hide himself it’s his own affair.’

  Mr. Ebbs grunted. ‘They’re quite right,’ he said. ‘There is no evidence. In fact, all the evidence there is seems to show that he’s stopping away of his own accord. The signatures on the letters and cheques are his own.’

  Again she nodded. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘and yet I’m certain that something has happened to him.’

  ‘What do you think has happened to him?’ asked Farringdon.

  She made a gesture of uncertainty. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘But I’m worried. That’s why I’ve come over.’

  Mr. Ebbs frowned. ‘I don’t know what we can do, Miss Thane,’ he said dubiously. ‘Everything that could be done was done two years ago.’

  She looked a little disappointed. ‘I suppose it is rather difficult,’ she admitted. ‘But I was wondering if — if something perhaps had been overlooked.’ She hesitated. ‘I mean — the police were so sure at the time that Uncle was just being eccentric, that perhaps they didn’t . . .’ She stopped, at a loss how to finish the sentence.

  ‘Put all their energy into it?’ suggested Farringdon, and she gave him a grateful look. ‘You may be near the mark there, Miss Thane. I suppose you’ve nothing definite as a basis for your belief that something has happened to your uncle?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. It’s only just an idea of mine,’ she replied.

  Farringdon looked at Mr. Ebbs, and the news editor frowned. The note that had reached him that morning from Lord Cornfield had been very emphatic. The Morning Herald’s proprietor’s instructions were that every assistance was to be given to Miss Lesley Thane, and that letter lay on the desk in front of him.

  ‘You’re not on anything at the moment, are you?’ he grunted.

  Farringdon shook his head.

  ‘Well, you’d better look into this business,’ went on the news editor grudgingly. ‘If there’s anything in it it’ll make a first-class story.’ His tone rather suggested that, privately, he thought there was nothing in it.

  ‘I’m sure there’s something in it,’ said the girl quietly. ‘I can’t tell you why I am so sure, but I just feel that Uncle Felix is not staying away of his own accord.’

  ‘Do you mean you think he’s been kidnapped?’ asked Farringdon.

  She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. ‘I don’t know what I think,’ she said.

  Mr. Ebbs fidgeted with the papers on his desk, and Farringdon could see that he was anxious to end the interview. ‘Suppose we go and have some coffee and talk it over?’ he suggested to the girl, and when she accepted, the news editor’s melancholy face visibly brightened

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ he said, almost heartily, ‘and if you can hit on anything, Street, I don’t mind telling you that it’s the scoop of your life.’ He rose to his feet as the girl held out her hand.

  ‘I’m very pleased to have met you, Miss Thane, and we’ll do all we can to help you.’

  She thanked him, and Farringdon escorted her to the door.

  ‘Come in and see me at three o’clock, Street,’ called Mr. Ebbs as they crossed the threshold, and he promptly immersed himself in the mass of work awaiting his attention, forgetting in less than five minutes that such a person as Lesley Thane existed.

  ‘This isn’t going to be an easy job you’ve taken on, Miss Thane,’ said Farringdon when they were seated opposite each other at a secluded table in a café in Fleet Street.

  ‘I know it isn’t,’ she answered, ‘but I feel that something ought to be done. The police won’t do anything more than they have, and since I am Uncle Felix’s only relative it’s up to me to do it. That’s why I’ve come to England. You see, Mr. Street,’ she went on when the waitress had taken their order, ‘he was more like a father to me than an uncle, and one of the things that makes me so sure that something has happened to him is the fact that he hasn’t written. The only people who have had any communication from him since he disappeared are his lawyers and the bank. If he was really on a world tour he would have written to me.’

  Farringdon pulled out a cigar
ette-case and lighted a cigarette. ‘What sort of man was he?’ he asked.

  ‘He was a dear,’ she replied instantly. ‘I don’t think he had an enemy in the world. I’ll have a cigarette, too, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised, and offered her his case. She helped herself and blew a cloud of smoke across the table.

  ‘I don’t mind telling you, Miss Thane,’ he said, ‘that quite apart from helping you, I’m interested. I always thought there was something peculiar about Dexon’s disappearance. Had he any intimate friends in England?’

  She wrinkled her forehead. ‘I only know of one,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘Mr. Clifford Feldon. I don’t know where he lives, though.’

  He pulled out an envelope and jotted down the name. ‘It shouldn’t be difficult to find him,’ he said. ‘I’ll have inquiries made at once. You see, what we’ve got to do is try and trace your uncle’s movements up to the time he disappeared. I don’t know how far the police went regarding that, but I’ve got a good friend at Scotland Yard and I’ll ask him. When we’ve found the last place he was seen at we can begin from there. Of course, the fact that he vanished two years ago is going to make it difficult.’

  ‘I know,’ she said despondently. ‘It seems almost a hopeless task.’

  ‘Oh, it’s by no means hopeless,’ said Farringdon cheerily, ‘but I think it’s going to take time. I’ll read up on all the back files relating to his disappearance and see if they supply any information that will help.’

  He put several more questions concerning Felix Dexon’s private life, secured a list of his friends in America, and then as the girl, with a glance at her watch, said she must go: ‘Where are you staying, in case I should wish to communicate with you?’ he asked.

  ‘How silly of me, I nearly forgot to tell you,’ she laughed. ‘I’m staying at the Regent. It’s in Berkeley Street, I think.’

  ‘I know it quite well,’ said Farringdon. He beckoned to the waitress for the bill.

  ‘You don’t know how grateful I am,’ she said as they passed out into the street.

  ‘It’s awfully good of you to help me.’

  ‘It’s nothing of the sort,’ he retorted. ‘It’s my job. If you’re right and we can discover what’s happened to Dexon, the Morning Herald will have the laugh of every other paper in Fleet Street.’

  At her request he hailed a passing cab, and it drew into the kerb. Crossing the strip of pavement, he helped the girl in and gave the driver the address of her hotel. She smiled him a farewell as the taxi moved away, and he stood looking after it.

  A few doors away, a long black saloon was standing by the sidewalk, and no sooner had the taxi containing Lesley Thane pulled away than it began to move slowly, and though it was obviously a powerful machine it made no effort to overtake the cab.

  Farringdon watched it thoughtfully, and then, acting on a sudden impulse, he snapped his fingers at another empty taxi that came into view, and jerked open the door as it slowed down at his signal.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ he snapped at the astonished driver. ‘Follow that big black saloon in front.’

  ‘All right, mate,’ said the taxi-man, and the reporter sprang in and slammed the door. He had come to his decision on the spur of the moment, and was wondering whether or not his sudden instinct was going to lead him on a wild goose chase.

  He soon found that he was right. The big black saloon was trailing the cab containing Lesley Thane. Keeping a few yards behind, it twined in and out of the traffic and, negotiating a maze of side turnings, eventually stopped as the girl’s taxi drew up outside her hotel.

  Farringdon stopped his cab too and, paying the driver, got out and crossed the road rapidly in the direction of the machine. At least, he thought, he would have a good look at the occupants, but as he got near the big car shot forward.

  He was in the middle of the road and he sprang aside as the long radiator swerved towards him, and he was only just in time. As it was, the right wing ripped a strip of cloth from his jacket and sent him staggering backwards. When he recovered his balance the back of the saloon was disappearing down a side turning.

  Farringdon looked after it and his mouth was set. The action had been a deliberate attempt to injure him — perhaps kill him. The owner of the black car, who took such an interest in Lesley Thane’s movements, evidently objected to his interference.

  Turning back, he saw the white-faced girl staring at him from the portico of the hotel. ‘Mr. Street!’ she gasped. ‘How did you get here? You did give me a scare. I thought you’d been run over.’

  ‘I believe that was the intention,’ replied the reporter grimly.

  She looked at him in astonishment. ‘Do you mean it wasn’t accidental?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘That is exactly what I do mean,’ he said. ‘That car followed you from Fleet Street this morning.’

  ‘Followed me?’ she repeated.

  He nodded. ‘Yes — somebody is very interested in your movements.’

  ‘Then I was right,’ she cried suddenly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.

  ‘I didn’t say anything before,’ she replied, ‘because I thought it was just imagination or nerves, or something like that, but I’ve had a feeling ever since I landed at Southampton that I was being watched.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone following you?’ asked Farringdon quickly.

  ‘No. Only just a feeling,’ she answered. ‘Who can it be?’

  ‘That’s an easy one to answer,’ said the reporter. ‘If there is anything fishy in your uncle’s disappearance, the people responsible have got the wind up at your presence in England. I’ve got the number of the car but I expect it’s a fake.’ He looked down ruefully at his torn coat. ‘I must be getting back to the office,’ he went on, ‘but before I go I think I ought to warn you to be careful. Don’t go out after dark, and even in the daytime keep in the more populated streets.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Do you think I’m in any danger?’

  He had no wish to frighten her, but it was just as well that she should be on her guard. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But be careful.’ He bade her goodbye and went towards Piccadilly, looking for a taxi, and as he drove back to Fleet Street his brows were drawn together in a frown.

  The incident of the black saloon had been impressive, and it could only mean one thing: Lesley Thane’s vague forebodings concerning her uncle’s disappearance had been correct, and the people responsible were taking the precaution of trying to prevent the inquiry being re-opened.

  Chapter Three – The Man in the Night

  Lesley Thane sat before the open window of her bedroom, looking out over the tops of the adjoining buildings at the glow in the sky that marked Piccadilly Circus. The night was very still, save for the distant rumble of the traffic, and the air was oppressive She had already undressed but never felt less like sleep in her life, and therefore, slipping on a light dressing-gown, she had seated herself by the window hoping that the air would make her feel drowsy.

  She turned over in her mind her interview of the morning, and concluded that she had started well. She liked Farringdon Street. There was something very human and very kindly about him. She was impressed by the suggestion of his capability, the latent strength in him, and felt that she could not have put the matter of her uncle’s disappearance into better hands. Nevertheless, there was cause for the vague uneasiness that refused to leave her.

  Who had followed her? Who was sufficiently interested in her movements to shadow her? Perhaps the reporter had been mistaken about the car. The near accident might really have been carelessness on the part of the driver; the fact of the car following her taxi just coincidence or capable of some simple explanation.

  She tried to bolster up her courage by trying to believe this, but failed. She was very wide awake, although the hour was late, and presently, turning on the light with a sigh, she picked up the evening newspaper which had been brought to her room and glan
ced through it. But she found nothing to interest her, and presently turned her attention to the novel she had been reading earlier in the evening.

  Locking the door, she took off the dressing gown and got into bed. For an hour she tried to concentrate her mind upon the story, and a church clock was striking one when she finally gave up the attempt and, putting the book on the bedside table, switched out the light and composed herself for sleep.

  The half-hour struck, then two, then she must have dozed. Hazily in her sleep she heard three chime, and was suddenly wide awake, but it was not the sound of the clock striking that had awakened her; it was the consciousness of danger. She sat up in, bed and listened, but could hear nothing. Farringdon Street’s warning of the morning came to her mind, and for no reason at all she felt filled with terror. And then she heard something.

  A sound of heavy, irregular breathing. It came from the window. Paralysed with fear, she stared with wide eyes at the blue-black square. As she looked, the horrible thing came into view. She saw a hand reach up out of the darkness and grip the window-sill, and while she sat with dry throat and shaking limbs a head appeared — a shapeless black blot, the face swathed in some sort of hood.

  She tried to scream, but the vocal cords in her throat seemed dried up and useless.

  The next instant the intruder was in the room. He moved stealthily towards the bed in a half-crouching position, so that silhouetted against the patch of night sky visible through the window he looked like some deformed shape conjured up in a nightmare. He stretched out a long, lean hand and began to feel carefully over the bed, and then suddenly Lesley found her voice and screamed.

  The masked intruder uttered a muffled oath, and her second scream was strangled at its birth by the fingers which gripped her neck. But her fear lent her strength and she beat off this clutching hand and sprang from the bed.

  In the dim light of the lightening sky she saw her assailant fumbling beneath the long black coat he wore, and then caught the gleam of the thin-bladed knife that he drew from his pocket.