The Hand of Fear

by Gerald Verner

  He continued on up the road, and breasting the slope presently found himself walking along by the open common land that bordered the lip of the quarry. He was still feeling very wide awake, and although he had already come a considerable distance, he made up his mind to continue.

  It was very still and peaceful, and his thoughts turned to Lesley Thane. Even to himself he refused to admit his feelings for the girl. There was an insurmountable barrier that rendered any such feelings hopeless: the barrier of Felix Dexon’s wealth. Lesley Thane was now an heiress and beyond the reach of a mere reporter.

  He had turned off the road and was making his way across the common, moving slowly over the uneven ground. She would probably return to America when all the excitement had died down, and that would be the last he would see of her. Well, it was much the best way . . .

  He stopped suddenly. Somewhere in the darkness ahead of him he had heard a sound — the splash of water.

  He peered in the direction of the noise and made out a dark figure running, about a hundred yards away. His thoughts connected the hurrying man with the splash he had heard, and he started to give chase. The other was moving at a fast pace, and the reporter had just increased his when a thin cry from behind him brought him to a sudden halt.

  He remembered the sound of that dull splash. There must be water near at hand, perhaps a pond or a river, and the runner had thrown someone in.

  The thin cry was repeated, and Farringdon could distinguish the word, ‘Help!’

  He swung round and hurried towards the place from whence the feeble cry had come, and as he ran he dragged a torch from his pocket, sending a bright beam dancing before him to guide his steps. The cries were not repeated, but now, in the white light of the torch, he could see the black expanse of a stretch of water, its surface agitated as something struggled below its surface. Without pausing for an instant, Farringdon flung aside the torch, tore off his coat, and the next moment was wading into the pond, searching frantically for the cause of those sinister ripples.

  The bottom shelved deeply, and a few yards away from the edge he found it was too deep to stand upright and had to swim. He had marked the spot in his mind from whence the ripples emanated, and, reaching this, he dived, feeling about with his hands. They touched something cold and wet . . . flesh . . .

  He managed to get a grip of clothing and tugged. Something moved heavily, but he could not raise it. He knew that what he was holding was a human form, but heavier than any human form should be.

  Tugging, struggling and gasping, he exerted all his strength, and by slow degrees managed to drag the thing in the pond into the shallows. Three minutes later he had got his heavy, soaking burden onto firm ground, and retrieving his torch, he threw the light onto the face of the man he had rescued. It was Stanley Holt!

  *

  Stanley Holt, clad in a sketchy attire that consisted of Hallick’s pyjamas and a dressing gown of Farringdon’s, gulped the hot whisky that the sleepy landlord at the inn had hurriedly prepared, and pulled his chair closer to the newly lit fire in the lounge. He had been unconscious when the reporter had dragged him out of the pool which had so nearly been his grave, but Farringdon had succeeded in bringing him round and had managed to get him back to the inn. Hallick had been awakened and told of the adventure, and when the landlord had been roused and the fire lighted, Holt had sufficiently recovered from his terrible experience to give them a brief account of his discovery in the quarry.

  ‘The most important question we have to answer,’ said Hallick thoughtfully, ‘is, who is this other prisoner?’

  ‘That’s been puzzling me,’ said Holt.

  ‘It’s a question that’s easily settled,’ remarked Farringdon. ‘Let’s go to the quarry now and find out.’

  ‘That’s a good idea of yours, Street,’ agreed Hallick, rising to his feet.

  ‘I wish I could come with you,’ said the American, looking ruefully at his ill-fitting pyjamas and dressing gown, ‘but I’ve got no clothes.’

  ‘I don’t think you ought to come even if you had, Mr. Holt,’ said the inspector. ‘You’ve been through quite enough. If you take my advice, you’ll slip along to my room and have a good rest.’

  Holt, who was so tired that he could scarcely keep his eyes open, required very little persuading to take this advice, and when they had seen him comfortably ensconced in Hallick’s bed, they left the inn.

  The sky was lightening in the east as they set out for the quarry, and the chill of dawn was in the air, but they were both too busy with their thoughts to feel the cold wind that had sprung up and was blowing in fitful gusts across the expanse of common. Who was the person who was being kept in that cave in the quarry? They discussed the matter as they strolled along, but could come to no satisfactory solution.

  They reached the lip of the quarry and began to seek for an easy way down. They found the place where the masked man had laboriously carried up the unconscious body of Holt, and began to climb down. Reaching the bottom, they set off towards the mass of rocks that partially masked the entrance to the cave and which Farringdon would always associate with that never-to-be-forgotten morning when he and Blagdon had discovered the prison house of Felix Dexon.

  ‘We’ll have to be careful,’ muttered Hallick as they entered the gloomy opening, ‘in case there’s anybody lurking about in here.’

  They listened, but there was no sound, and cautiously they advanced along the passage until they came to the dividing of the ways. Taking the left-hand gallery, they rounded the bend and came to the point where the passage broadened into the cave-like chamber. Here they stopped again, but all was silent. Not a sound broke the intense stillness. Switching on the light of the torch he carried, Hallick stepped boldly forward, spraying it from side to side.

  They saw the dark heap of rugs in the middle of the floor and went over curiously. ‘Now let’s see who this mysterious person is,’ grunted Hallick, pulling off the blankets which covered the motionless form.

  Farringdon’s cry of horror drowned the inspector’s oath. For the thing that the blanket had covered was the dead body of Harold Earnshaw. He had died as Mr. Sopley had died, and the blood from the wound in his throat had soaked into the blankets on which he lay.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Man Responsible

  Hallick looked down at the dead man, his face set and grim.

  ‘Is he quite dead?’ whispered Farringdon, and the inspector nodded.

  ‘Quite,’ he answered sternly. ‘He couldn’t have lived very long with a wound like that.’ He knelt beside the body and touched one of the hands. The flesh was still warm. ‘He wasn’t killed so very long ago, either,’ he muttered. ‘The blood’s still wet. Surely he couldn’t have been the prisoner whom Holt saw. We should have heard if he’d disappeared.’

  ‘Then they must have succeeded in getting the other person away,’ said the reporter a little obviously, as he realized as soon as the words had left his lips.

  ‘Probably discovered that their plan to kill Holt had failed,’ grunted Hallick as he rose to his feet. ‘The question is, how did Earnshaw get here?’

  ‘That’s not the only question,’ answered Farringdon wearily. ‘There are dozens of questions. I can think of enough to fill a large-sized notebook.’

  ‘So could I,’ growled Hallick, rubbing his chin. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better notify Blagdon of this.’

  ‘I’ll go, if you like,’ offered the reporter.

  ‘I’d be glad if you would,’ said Hallick. ‘One of us certainly ought to stay on guard. Tell him to bring a doctor and a stretcher.’

  Farringdon nodded and left the underground cave, scrambled up the side of the quarry, and set off almost at a run for the little police station at Deneswood. As he reached the entrance, to his surprise, Blagdon came out. The local man had evidently dressed himself hurriedly and looked sleepy-eyed and dishevelled.

  ‘Hello!’ he said as he caught sight of Street. ‘How did you know anything about it?’
The reporter was rather taken aback.

  ‘I made the discovery with Hallick,’ he said. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘You made the discovery with Hallick?’ echoed Blagdon in blank astonishment. ‘But they notified no one but me! The telephone message came through twenty minutes ago to the police station, and the sergeant on duty sent to wake me up —’

  ‘Twenty minutes ago!’ echoed Farringdon. ‘Why — we’ve only just found the body —’

  ‘Body?’ Blagdon’s eyes opened wide. ‘What body? I’ve heard nothing about that. All I was told was that someone had broken in —’

  ‘I think we’re talking at cross purposes,’ said the reporter, interrupting him. ‘I’m referring to the murder of Harold Earnshaw. Hallick and I discovered his body in that cave at the quarry a few minutes ago.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said the inspector quickly. ‘I’m talking about an attempted burglary at Blessington’s. Has there been another murder then?’

  Rapidly, Farringdon told him of the happenings of the night.

  ‘This is more serious than Blessington’s burglary,’ said Blagdon when he had finished. ‘Just a minute. I’ll get my sergeant to ring up the police doctor. I think I’d better go along to the quarry first. I’ll send up to Blessington’s and tell them to hang on until I can get there.’

  ‘I’ll go if you like,’ said the reporter, and Blagdon accepted the offer gratefully. Most of his men were out on patrol and he was glad of Farringdon’s help. He reentered the police station and Farringdon hurried away on his errand.

  Farringdon found the house brilliantly lit and one of the plainclothes officers on guard at the front door. To him he rapidly explained the situation and went in to interview Mr. Blessington. He found that gentleman only partially dressed, being clad in a pyjama jacket and a pair of trousers, over which he wore an ornate, many-hued dressing gown. His head was still bandaged, and he received Farringdon in his sumptuously furnished library which, unlike that at Feldon’s house, contained more books than anything else.

  ‘A terrible business, Mr. Street,’ he said tragically. ‘I appear to be surrounded by robbery and death.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked the reporter briefly.

  Mr. Blessington took a sip of whisky from the glass by his side. ‘My butler made the discovery,’ he said, ‘and woke me. Somebody broke in by the French windows in the drawing room, and Oliver, my man, heard him and came down. Luckily he frightened him away before any serious damage could be done. But in the state of my nerves the shock has been irreparable. I am naturally of a rather nervous disposition’ — he smiled a trifle apologetically — ‘and I must say that all these incidents, happening one on top of another, are having a serious effect on my health. I shall really have, much as I dislike the thought, to go away in order to recuperate.’ He took another drink from his glass and Farringdon wondered what he would say when he learned of the tragic fate of Earnshaw. ‘I instructed Oliver,’ he went on, ‘to phone the police. It was an extremely unpleasant experience, and most alarming.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said the reporter, ‘you didn’t see what this man was like?’

  Mr. Blessington shook his large head. ‘I never saw him at all,’ he replied. ‘But I asked my butler the same question and he could offer no description. This atmosphere of violence is very dreadful, Mr. Street,’ said the stout man sorrowfully. ‘The pleasant, peaceful stream of life that we have always experienced here has during the past few weeks been rudely shattered, I fear.’

  ‘Completely broken, I should say,’ said the reporter, am then suddenly: ‘Another murder was committed tonight.’

  Mr. Blessington looked at him in horror. ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘Who — who is the latest — er — victim?’

  ‘Mr. Earnshaw,’ answered Farringdon. ‘He was stabbed in the throat at the quarry some time during the past hour and a half.’

  ‘But this is terrible! Dear me! Dreadful!’ said the stout man in a shocked voice. ‘Earnshaw! Charming man, charming man.’

  ‘Delightful!’ said the reporter dryly. ‘The police are under the impression that he was in league with the murderer.’

  Mr. Blessington gasped like a newly landed fish. ‘In league? Good gracious! You astonish me. Why, then, was he killed?’

  ‘Because we think he knew too much,’ replied Farringdon, and he gave the stout proprietor of Deneswood Valley an account of what had happened at the quarry.

  ‘Incredible!’ cried Mr. Blessington in horror. ‘Incredible! It is almost beyond belief that so much wickedness could exist. Who can be at the bottom of this dreadful business? Have you any suspicion? It is a very terrible thought that this fiend — this murderer — is living in our midst. One will never feel safe until he is apprehended. I hope that the police will not rest until he is under lock and key.’

  ‘I can assure you, Mr. Blessington,’ replied the reporter a little absently, ‘that everything will be done that is possible.’ He leaned forward. ‘May I have one of your cigars? I’m afraid I’ve run out of cigarettes.’

  ‘My dear sir, certainly,’ said Mr. Blessington, and he pushed forward a box that stood on the table at his elbow. ‘Really, you must forgive me for not having offered you one before, but the excitement of — er — of the night, you know, and — er —’

  ‘Please don’t apologise,’ said Street hurriedly. ‘I quite understand.’ He reached out a long arm and helped himself to one of the brown cylinders. In withdrawing his arm his sleeve caught on the edge of the box and it toppled off the table and fell on the floor, scattering its contents on the carpet.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Most clumsy of me.’ He was on his knees in an instant and began picking up the cigars hastily. ‘It was my sleeve button . . .’

  ‘It is my turn to say please don’t apologise,’ said Mr. Blessington with a smile, and then, as the reporter replaced the box on the table and sat down, ‘Can I offer you any — er — refreshment?’

  Farringdon shook his head. ‘No, thank you,’ he replied. ‘By the way, Mr. Blessington, you haven’t been wounded at all, have you?’

  ‘Wounded?’ said his host, his eyebrows going up in surprise. ‘Not — er — not recently. I was — er — rather badly hurt when that disgusting attack was made on me the other night, but I’m thankful to say that I have almost completely recovered.’

  ‘That’s curious,’ said Farringdon, and there was a note in his voice that caused the other to look at him sharply.

  ‘Why is it curious?’ he inquired. ‘Surely —’

  ‘I’ll tell you why it’s curious!’ snapped the reporter suddenly. ‘It’s curious because although you have not recently been wounded, the welt of your right-hand boot is sodden with blood!’

  Mr. Blessington made a movement forward, but the hand that Farringdon withdrew from his pocket held a pistol, and the muzzle covered him unwaveringly. ‘You’ve made a mistake. Your first,’ said the reporter grimly. ‘You forgot to change your boots after you came from the quarry, and one of them is still covered with the blood of Harold Earnshaw. A slight mistake, but a fatal one for you. I saw the gleam of it in the light, and in order to make quite sure, I upset those cigars so that I could get a closer look. Put up your hands, Mr. Blessington, or Sam Gates, or whatever your real name is, and keep them up. If you try to reach that pistol in your pocket I’ll blow the top of your head off!’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – The Secret of Deneswood

  Mr. Blessington slowly raised a pair of podgy hands and his large face wore an expression of amazed bewilderment. ‘You’re making a very great mistake, Mr. Street,’ he said, and though he strove to speak calmly there was a slight shake in his voice. ‘A very great mistake indeed. You will get into serious trouble over this.’

  ‘I’ll take the risk!’ snapped Farringdon. ‘It’s useless bluffing, Mr. Blessington. You can’t explain away that blood on your boot.’

  ‘My dear man’ — there was something very like
a sneer in the slow, measured voice — ‘that is not sufficient proof. No jury would regard that as sufficient proof. I can’t at the moment account for its presence, but I dare say there is a very simple explanation.’

  ‘There is,’ retorted the reporter. ‘The explanation I have already given you. Besides that, I think the biggest proof of all will be found in this house.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Blessington’s face changed and a flicker of fear showed for a second in his eyes.

  ‘I mean the person you were keeping prisoner at the quarry,’ replied Farringdon sharply. ‘That person is in this house now, somewhere. When you discovered that the attempt to kill Holt had failed you hurried the person you were keeping captive away from the cave and brought him here, and then in case there was a chance that you might be suspected you staged your little comedy of the attempted burglary. It was all very clever, but you really should have put on a different pair of boots.’

  He was bluffing, but the expression on the stout man’s face justified the bluff. Blessington looked at him from beneath drooping lids which gave to his face a new meaning — a savage and ruthless expression. His lips moved soundlessly and his fat cheeks had gone a curious grey.

  ‘You’re very clever, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘But you haven’t got me yet.’

  ‘Then you admit that you have been responsible for all these crimes?’ cut in the reporter quickly.

  The other shook his head. ‘I admit nothing!’ he snarled, and then laughed — a mirthless laugh — loud and long. ‘You fool! D’you think I can be caught as easily as this?’

  Something — a fleeting expression — warned Farringdon of danger. At the same moment a hard, cold ring ground into the back of his neck and a hand reached over his shoulder and wrenched his pistol from his grasp.