She shook her head. “I can’t do that, Roy. You know I can’t. We must wait until I’m twenty-three. Aunt Elizabeth is my guardian. Under the terms of my father’s will I can’t get married without her consent until my twenty third birthday.…”
“‘Aunt Elizabeth’!” Roy cut in. “Why do you call her that? She isn’t your aunt.”
“There, there!” Margaret said mockingly. “Mustn’t be cross.” Her eyes sobered. “My mother died when I was three. My father had been away from America so long that he’d lost touch with what few relatives he had here. He was away in the interior a lot and during those absences he left me in the care of Lord and Lady Lertine. They were his closest friends. Lord Lertine was an official of the British Government. They had no children and became attached to me. Before his death, my father appointed Lord and Lady Lertine my guardians. They were wonderful to me and I always looked on them, and spoke of them, as my uncle and aunt. In deference to my father’s wishes, they brought me to an American boarding school when I was fourteen. While I was at school, Lord Lertine lost his life in a hunting accident. After school I returned on a visit to India. Lady Lertine had lost all balance after the death of her husband. She became fascinated by Ishan Das Babaji and was completely dominated by him. Nothing else seemed to matter to her. She gave up everything for his sake. I returned to America to enter college. I wasn’t surprised to hear soon after that Lady Lertine had married Ishan Das Babaji. Then Ishan Das Babaji ran afoul of the British Government. Fomenting a native uprising, or something. He fled to America with Aunt Elizabeth.
“If I leave them before twenty-three, it might cost me my fortune. If Aunt Elizabeth were not so completely dominated by the Bengali, I’m sure she would consent to our marrying at once. She won’t admit it, but it’s he who is raising the objections to our marriage.”
“Well, so far as money goes, we don’t need that,” Roy said. “You’re going to stew yourself into a nervous collapse if you stay there another ten months.”
“Oh, it’s not just that, Roy. In a way, I still love Aunt Elizabeth. I’m frightened for her.
Something is going to happen at that house. I must stay there and try to protect her. She was wonderful to me when I was a youngster. She was a mother to me. If you had known her then you’d feel different. And anyway, I’m an American girl, and we’re in America. I don’t intend to let any Hindu beat me out of the money my father killed himself to earn for me! And that’s what I believe Ishan Das Babaji is trying to do!”
“What makes you think that?” Roy asked quickly.
“Well, already he’s trying to influence me through my aunt. She’s always talking to me about one of those crazy Hindu religions. She’s doing that on the promptings of Ishan Das Babaji. I loathe that man!”
“If you must go back there, promise to let me know every day what goes on there,” Roy begged.
Margaret laughed brittlely. “‘What goes on there!’ That’s what I’ve been trying to find out for the last six months. Sometimes I wake in the night with the feeling that something awful is happening around me. At first I thought it was nightmares, or my imagination. But lately the thing has been growing on me. I have got up in the middle of the night and prowled through the house. But most of the doors are kept locked and I can hear nothing. Roy, why are so many of those rooms walled with steel plate?”
Roy shook his head. He tensed and leaned across the table! “Marge, that place fascinates me. I’m going to look it over tonight!”
“I don’t want you to do that,” Margaret said quickly. “The instant I find out something definite, I’ll tell you. And if ever I feel in danger, I’ll get word to you somehow. And now you may escort me to my charming home,” she said dryly.
* * * *
Despite Margaret’s wishes to the contrary, Roy determined to do some investigating that night. Shortly before midnight he was in the alley that passed
the rear of the Bengali’s back yard. He wore a dark flannel shirt, a blue suit and cap, and in his pocket he felt the reassuring bulk of a .38 revolver. Roy moved along the alley until he reached the high brick wall that surrounded the house. He tied a large, black silk handkerchief over his face. Gripping the top of the wall, Roy pulled himself up until he could see over. A careful scrutiny revealed no one about the garden. He climbed the wall and dropped to the ground.
Roy crouched close to the wall and waited. There was no sign of life in the garden and the big brownstone house was totally dark. Warily, avoiding the gravel paths, Roy made his way toward the house. He stood in the shadow of the building while he studied the windows. Either there were no lights in the house, or the windows were so well shaded that no light could escape.
A flight of stairs leading to the door of a semi-basement attracted Roy. He crept stealthily down the stairs and tried the door. It was small, but had the appearance of great weight and strength. Roy saw that the door opened inward. It was locked or bolted. He crouched down and put an ear to the sill.
He heard the soft pad of feet and jumped to an upright position. A blow on the shoulder flung him against the door. Roy staggered. Two men leaped on him. They got inside his reach, but Roy chopped in a few short punches that brought grunts. A thumb gouged into Roy’s right eye. He pulled up his knee, thrust it into a soft body and the finger left his eye. Roy shifted from the door. A Hindu shouted in his native tongue. Roy thrust the fellow back a foot, swung a fist and it went to the jaw. The other Hindu was getting up. Roy leaped over him and made the stairs. At the top he almost collided with the tall figure of Ishan Das Babaji.
Roy ran for the wall, but before he reached it a Hindu sprang into his path. Roy pulled his gun, flourished it before the Hindu, and waved him aside. The Hindu’s response was a leap at Roy. They both went down. They rolled over and over in a flower bed. Roy spat out a mouthful of dirt that was choking him. The Hindu clutched Roy’s gun hand. Roy tried to fling himself loose. The gun cracked and the Hindu went limp.
Roy jerked himself free. He looked down for an instant at the Hindu. The man was dead with a bullet through the head.
Other servants were almost upon him. Roy raced for the wall. He swarmed over and dropped to the safety of the alley. He ran to the first street intersection, then risked a glance back. No one had come beyond the wall. The handkerchief had slipped down to his neck. Roy pulled it away and walked slowly to his club.
He had enjoyed a wild exultation on reaching the alley. But with nerves quieted, he saw little to cause satisfaction. He had failed in the purpose that had led him to the house, and he was responsible for the death of the Hindu.
He decided to wait until morning before surrendering himself to the police. No use talking yourself into jail in the middle of the night, he thought. He bathed and threw himself into the comfort of his soft bed. Would the police believe his version of the shooting?
He was hours getting to sleep, then woke up to find the sun pouring through the open windows. He yawned and grinned. Hellish nightmare. A torn and dirty blue suit lay on a chair. Roy jumped from bed. He drew a revolver from the coat pocket, broke it, and saw an empty shell.
Roy telephoned for coffee and the morning papers. The Hindu’s death was not reported.
An hour later Roy visited the morgue. Discreet inquiries revealed that the body of the Hindu had not been brought there. Evidently Ishan Das Babaji disposed of his own dead. Roy changed his mind about going to the police.
He walked away from the morgue wondering why the home of Ishan Das Babaji was so zealously guarded. If there was nothing criminal going on in the house, why the walls of steel? Why the locked rooms? If Ishan Das Babaji were honest, why did he not report the death of his servant? Why had Roy been permitted to escape from the garden when an attempt, at least, might have been made to stop him with gunfire? Was it because the Bengali preferred to allow a prowler to escape rather than risk police investigation by alarming the neighborhood?
At three o’clock that afternoon Roy decided to visit the brow
nstone house—this time as an innocent caller. He did not know if the astute Bengali had recognized him the previous night. It did not seem likely that in the darkness Ishan Das Babaji could have identified Roy as he flashed past on the run to the garden wall. But Roy did not know at what stage of the struggle the black handkerchief had slipped down from his face.
When he reached the top of the stone steps leading to the house, the windowless doors swung inward. This little circumstance always amused and intrigued Roy. Where was the observation post? There were no windows in the vicinity of the solid doors and yet they were always opened before Roy had time to announce his arrival by ringing the bell.
He passed before a salaaming Hindu and allowed himself to be conducted to the drawing room. Once again he experienced the feeling of depression that always overwhelmed him when he entered the house. He became vaguely uneasy and doubted the wisdom of this visit.
The crimson velvet drapes parted and Ishan Das Babaji entered the room. Roy arose and exchanged conventional greetings with the Bengali.
“Sit down, Mr. Martin, Miss Miller will be here shortly. And in the meantime, I’m going to avail myself of your company. I’m a victim of ennui this afternoon.”
They discussed commonplace things for a time and Roy felt himself reacting to the undeniable charm of his discoursive host. Before Roy quite realized it, the Bengali had adroitly turned the conversation on the subject of burglaries. He recounted at length the looting of the home of a mythical friend. He burst into a tirade against the inefficiency of the police and wound up saying: “For myself, I don’t depend on the police. I have many valuable art treasures, and I take my own means of protection. My servants are different from yours in that they would deem it an honor to die in my service.”
At the words Roy wondered if, after all, he might not be doing the Bengali a great injustice. The steel walls and heavy doors might well be the precautions of an eccentric art collector.
“Yes, Mr. Martin,” the Bengali continued softly, “it would probably cost the life of any burglar who attempted to break in here.” The words were softly spoken, but held a note of menace. The eyes of the Bengali blazed with fire; his lips twitched, and his long, slender fingers clasped and unclasped. “And it would be a terrible death!” he finished.
So, Roy concluded, he had been recognized after all, and this was a not too subtle warning of what he might expect if he made another attempt to break into the Bengali’s house.
Margaret entered the room and the Bengali’s manner changed to calm graciousness. The three sat and talked for some time, when the Bengali begged to be excused and left them. Roy did not think the house any place to discuss with safety the things he wished. He suggested a drive and Margaret consented.
Roy decided to tell Margaret nothing of his attempt to enter the house the previous night. Little was said until they reached the suburbs, when Roy asked Margaret what kind of night she had passed, and if anything had disturbed her.
Margaret said she had slept well, except for waking once some time after midnight. She did not know what had awakened her.
“Marge, how many servants are there in that house?” Roy asked abruptly.
“Eight.”
“And are they all Hindus’?”
“Yes. When I went there, I wanted to bring a maid, but the suggestion excited Auntie so much that I never repeated it. I make up my own room, except once or twice a week when it gets a thorough cleaning. I don’t like the idea of those Hindus prowling about my room.”
“Do you think it would be possible for us to get into any of those locked rooms?” Roy asked.
“No, it wouldn’t,” Margaret replied. “There is never a time when Ishan Das Babaji or some of the servants are not at home. I wish we could, because I think that in those rooms.…”
She stopped abruptly.
“Go ahead,” Roy urged. “You’re getting interesting.”
Margaret smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that if anything is happening in that house, it must be going on in those rooms.”
Roy turned the car toward town. Neither spoke much. Margaret had become depressed and after several attempts to lead her into a livelier mood, Roy lapsed into silence.
* * * *
The large lady who presided over the destinies of the Reliable Employment Agency hung up the telephone receiver and addressed a group of applicants.
“An upstairs maid for a place in the country—close in. Gotta be a young girl—good appearance. Gotta be a girl that don’t live in town here. They don’t want a girl always runnin’ into the city, Good place—seventy, all found.”
Before the manager of the agency finished speaking, several girls arose an advanced toward the desk. One of the girls, a trifle more aggressive than her fellow applicants, pushed to the front and shouted, “I’ll take it!”
She was young and pretty, and showily dressed in cheap finery.
“What experience?” the manager demanded.
“None,” the girl answered frankly. “I’ve always worked in stores. But I can do housework. Lord knows, I’ve done plenty of it back home.”
“Where is your home?”
“Columbus,” the girl answered.
“Well, I’ll let you go out and talk to them. They said experience wasn’t important. They want a girl that’s young and of good appearance. And they want a girl from outta town. The fee’s five dollars. What’s the name?”
“Irma Rollins.”
The manager of the agency filled in a form to be given to the employer and gave Irma a receipt for five dollars.
“You go to Wendley station. They’ll meet you there with a car. The fare is sixty cents and if they don’t hire you, they’ll pay your fare both ways. You get a train at two-ten and take your clothes because if they hire you, you got to start right in.”
The manager of the agency nodded her head in dismissal and her responsibilities were ended.
Irma hurried to her room to pack. With a little crowding, a suitcase and handbag held her worldly possessions. When the packing was completed, her roommate entered. Irma drew herself up to a statuesque pose and invited her friend to “Pipe the slavey!” Hurried and scant details of the job followed, and Irma prepared to depart. “I’ll write to you, dearie, and if I meet some millionaire sheik out there I’ll try to make it for two.” A farewell kiss and Irma was gone.
At the pretty little station of Wendley, decorated with well-kept lawn and shrubbery, Irma found a large limousine waiting her. She noticed, with a trace of disappointment, that the liveried chauffeur was some sort of colored person. The chauffeur advanced and took her baggage. The door of the limousine opened and a voice of cultured dignity bade her enter.
Irma found the speaker to be a strikingly beautiful woman of early middle age. A mass of orange-gold hair shone beneath her hat, and the woman’s eyes were the green of the sea. The lady leaned far back upon the cushions in regal poise, and when she spoke it was in soft, musical tones.
“English,” Irma observed inwardly, “or uppitty Bostonian.”
“You have come from the agency?” the woman asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Irma replied, and handed her the employment slip.
The lady read it carelessly and asked, “Where is your home?”
“In Columbus, ma’am.”
“And you have no relatives in the city?”
“No, ma’am.”
“The reason I ask,” the lady continued, “is because we find that girls whose homes are in the city want to run in to town too frequently.”
“Oh, I don’t care about going to town,” Irma told her prospective employer. “I have no one there.”
“Very well, my child, I think you’ll be satisfactory.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Irma’s employer signaled the chauffeur and the car started.
During the short interview, Irma had noticed that the lady’s questions were asked in a mechanical manner, and that her employer appeared to be
vaguely troubled. The face had lost its beauty temporarily, and become lined and haggard. The green eyes were fixed straight ahead and were strangely devoid of expression, while a great struggle appeared to be going on in the mind behind them. Irma jumped to the conclusion, that her employer was a dope fiend. “Sure, wasn’t a lot of these society dames hop-heads?”
Her reflections were interrupted by the soft, musical voice: “We are going to the city now. I am to meet my husband at our town house. You may come with me.”
Irma replied with another, “Yes, ma’am.”
She was on her employer’s time now, and it mattered not a whit to her where they went. She would as soon spend the afternoon riding in a purple limousine as doing housework. She settled herself back to enjoy the ride.
The summer afternoon lulled her sensibilities and she gave herself up to day dreams. She would meet some handsome young millionaire who would marry her, and then she would have a limousine like this for her own. A short flight of the imagination brought her to the ownership of this very car. She was oblivious to her employer and gazed out of the window, occasionally nodding to imaginary acquaintances.
If Irma was oblivious of her, that beautiful lady was far from being oblivious of her new employee; and if Irma had given the lady as much attention as the lady was giving her, Irma’s thoughts might have been uneasy ones.
Sometimes as the older woman’s eyes fell on the young girl beside her, she would survey Irma from head to foot in careful appraisal. The result was apparently satisfying. At other times she looked strangely uneasy and sad.
At last the car came to a stop. “Here we are,” the lady said.
They left the car and walked toward a massive brownstone house that stood in the midst of spacious grounds. Before they reached the uppermost of the steps leading to the house, two windowless doors of solid mahogany swung open. They entered the house and, to Irma’s surprise passed a deeply-bowing Hindu. The great doors closed and the reception hall in which they stood was in almost total darkness.
The Mystery Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Mystery Stories Page 15
