His first care was to unlock and throw open the back door, so as to provide an emergency exit in case of need. Then he closed and refastened the scullery window, darkening with a pencil the wood where the knife had broken a splinter. As he said to himself, there was no kind of sense in calling attention to his visit.
He crossed the hall and silently opened the front door to see that all was right with Joan. Then closing it again, he began a search of the house.
The building was of old-fashioned design, a narrow hall running through its centre from back to front. Five doors opened off this hall, leading to the dining-room and the kitchen at one side, a sitting-room and a kind of library or study at the other, and the garden at the back. Upstairs were four bedrooms—one unoccupied—and a servant’s room.
Cheyne rapidly passed through the house searching for likely hiding-places for the tracing. Soon he came to the conclusion that unless some freak place had been chosen, it would be in one of two places: either a big roll-top desk in the library or an old-fashioned escritoire in one of the bedrooms. Both of these were locked. Fortunately there was no safe.
He decided to try the desk first. A gentle application of the jemmy burst its lock and he threw up the cover and sat down to go through the contents.
Evidently it belonged to Blessington, and evidently also Blessington was a man of tidy and businesslike habits. There were but few papers on the desk and these from their date were clearly current and waiting to be dealt with. In the drawers were bundles of letters, accounts, receipts and miscellaneous papers, all neatly tied together with tape and docketed. In one of the side drawers was a card index and in another a vertical numeralpha letter file. Through all of these Cheyne hurriedly looked, but nowhere was there any sign of the tracing.
A few measurements with a pocket rule showed that there were no spaces in the desk unaccounted for, and closing the top, Cheyne hurried upstairs to the escritoire. It was a fine old piece and it went to his heart to damage it with the jemmy. But he remembered his treatment aboard the Enid, and such a paroxysm of anger swept over him that he plunged in the point of his tool and ruthlessly splintered open the lid.
The drawers were fastened by separate locks, and each one Cheyne smashed with a savage satisfaction. Then he began to examine their contents.
This was principally bundles of old letters, tied up in the same methodical way as those downstairs. Cheyne did not read anything, but from the fragments of sentences which he could not help seeing there seemed ample corroboration of Speedwell’s statements that Blessington lived by professional blackmail. He felt a wave of disgust sweep over him as he went through drawer after drawer of the obscene collection.
But here also no luck met his efforts, and with a sinking heart he took out his rule to measure the escritoire. And then he became suddenly excited as he found that the thickness of the wood at the back of the drawers, which normally should have been about half an inch, measured no less than four inches. Here, surely, there must be a secret drawer.
He examined the woodwork, but nowhere could he see the slightest trace of an opening. He pressed and pulled and pushed, but still without result: no knob would slide, no panel depress. But of the existence of the space there was no doubt. There was room for a receptacle six inches by twelve by three, and, moreover, all six sides of it sounded hollow when tapped.
There was nothing for it but force. With a sharp stroke he rammed the point of the jemmy into the side. It penetrated, he levered it down, and with a grinding, cracking sound the wood split and part of it was prised off. Eagerly Cheyne put the torch to the opening, and he chuckled with satisfaction as he saw within the familiar lilac gray of the tracing.
Once again he inserted the point of the jemmy to prise off the remainder of the side, but the heavy wood at the top of the piece prevented his getting a leverage. He withdrew the tool to find a fresh purchase, but as he did so, the front door bell rang—several sharp, jerky peals. Frantically he jammed in the jemmy, intending by sheer force to smash out the wood, but his position was hampered, and it cracked, but did not give. As he tried desperately for a fresh hold an urgent double knock sounded from below. Sweating and tugging with the jemmy he heard voices outside the window. And then with a resounding crack the panel gave, he plunged in his hand, seized the tracing, thrust it and the jemmy into his pocket and rushed out of the room.
But as he did so he heard the front door open and Dangle’s voice from below: ‘It sounded in the house. Didn’t you think so?’ and Susan’s: ‘Yes, upstairs, I thought.’
Cheyne looked desperately round for a weapon. Near the head of the stairs stood a light cane chair, and this he seized as he dashed down. As he turned the angle of the stairs Dangle switched on the light in the hall, and with a startled oath ran forward to intercept him. With all his might Cheyne hurled the chair at the other’s head. Dangle threw up his arms to protect his face, and by the time he recovered himself Cheyne was in the hall, doubling round the newel post. Both Dangle and Susan clutched at the flying figure. But Cheyne, twisting like an eel, tore himself free and made at top speed for the back door. This he slammed after him, rushing as fast as he could down the garden. He slackened only to pull the gate to as he passed through it, then sped along the lane, and turning at its end away from Dalton Road, tore off into the night.
These proceedings were not in accordance with the Plan. The intention had been that on either recovering the tracing or satisfying himself that it was not in the house, Cheyne would close the back door, and letting himself out by the front, would meet Joan, pull the door to after them, walk round the house and quietly disappear via the garden and lane. But the possibility of an unexpected flight had been recognised. It had been decided that in such a case the first thing would be to get rid of the tracing, so that in the event of capture, the fruits of the raid would at least be safe. Therefore, on all the routes away from Earlswood hiding-places had been fixed on, into which Cheyne was to throw the tracing and from which Joan would afterwards recover it. Along the lane the hiding-place was the back of a wall approaching a culvert, and over this wall Cheyne duly threw the booty as he rushed along.
By this time Dangle was out on the road and running for all he was worth. But Cheyne had the advantage of him. He was lighter and an experienced athlete, and, except for his illness, was in better training. Moreover, he was more lightly clad and wore rubber shoes. Dangle, though Cheyne did not know it, was hampered by an overcoat and patent leather boots. He could not gain on the fugitive, and Cheyne heard his footsteps dropping farther and farther behind, until at last they ceased altogether.
Cheyne slackened to a walk as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. So far as he was concerned he had now only to make his way back to town and meet Joan at her studio. He considered his position and concluded his best and safest plan would be to go on to Harrow and take an express for Marylebone—if he could get one.
He duly reached Harrow, but he found there that he would have nearly an hour to wait for a non-stop train for London. He decided, however, that this would be better than risking a halt at Wembley Park, and he hung about at the end of the platform until the train came along. On reaching town he took a taxi to Horne Terrace and hurried up to No. 12. Joan had not returned!
He waited outside her room for a considerable time, then coming down, began to pace the street in front of the house. Every moment he became more and more anxious. It was now half-past twelve o’clock and she should have been back over an hour ago. What could be keeping her? Merciful Heavens! If anything could have happened to her.
He wrote a note on a leaf of his pocket-book saying he would return in the morning, and going once more up to her flat, pushed it under the door. Then hailing a belated taxi, he offered the man a fancy price to drive him to Wembley Park.
Some half-hour later he climbed over the wall across which he had thrown the tracing. A careful search showed that it was no longer there, moreover it revealed the print of a dainty shoe with a
rather high heel, such as he had noticed Joan wearing earlier in the evening. He returned to the shrubs at the gap where they had waited, but there he could find no trace of her at all. Then he walked all round Earlswood, but it was shrouded in darkness. Finally, his taxi man having refused to wait for him and all traffic being over for the day, he set out to walk to London, which he reached between three and four o’clock.
He had some coffee at a stall and then returned to his hotel, but by seven he was once more at Horne Terrace. Eagerly he raced up the steps and knocked at No. 12. There was no answer.
Suddenly a white speck below the door caught his eye, and stooping, he saw the note he had pushed in on the previous evening. Joan evidently had not yet returned.
11
Otto Schulz’s Secret
Cheyne, faced by the disquieting fact that Joan Merrill had failed to reach home in spite of her expressed intention to return there immediately, stood motionless outside her door, aghast and irresolute. With a growing anxiety he asked himself what could have occurred to delay her. He knew her well enough to be satisfied that she would not change her mind through sudden caprice. Something had happened to her, and as he considered the possibilities, he grew more and more uneasy.
The contingency was one which neither of them had foreseen, and for the moment he was at a loss as to how to cope with it. First, in his hot-blooded way he thought of buying a real pistol, returning to Earlswood, and shooting Blessington and Dangle unless they revealed her whereabouts. Then reason told him that they really might not know it, that Joan might have met with an accident or for some reason have gone to friends for the night, and he thought of putting the matter in Speedwell’s hands. But he soon saw that Speedwell had not the means or the organisation to deal adequately with the affair and his thoughts turned to Scotland Yard. He was loath to confess his own essays in illegality in such an unsympathetic milieu, but of course no hesitation was possible if Joan’s safety was at stake.
Still pondering the problem, he turned and slowly descended the stairs. He would wait, he thought, for an hour or perhaps two—say until nine. If by nine o’clock she had neither turned up nor sent a message he would go to Scotland Yard, no matter what the consequences to himself might be.
Thinking that he should go back to his hotel in case she telephoned, he strode off along the pavement. But he had scarcely left the doorway when he heard his name called from behind, and swinging round, he gazed in speechless amazement at the figure confronting him. It was James Dangle!
For a moment they stared at one another and then Cheyne saw red.
‘You infernal scoundrel!’ he yelled, and sprang at the other’s throat. Dangle, stepping back, threw up his hands to parry the onslaught, while he cried earnestly:
‘Steady, Mr Cheyne; for God’s sake, steady! I have a message for you from Miss Merrill.’
Cheyne glared wrathfully, but he pulled himself together and released his hold.
‘Don’t speak her name, you blackguard!’ he said thickly. ‘What’s your message?’
‘She is all right,’ Dangle answered quickly, ‘but the rest of it will take time to tell. Let us get out of this.’
Some passers-by, hearing the raised voices, had stopped and a small crowd, eager for a row, had collected about the two men. Dangle seized Cheyne’s wrist and hurried him down the street and round the corner.
‘Let’s go to your hotel, Mr Cheyne, or anywhere else we can talk,’ he begged. ‘What I have to say will take a little time.’
Cheyne snatched his wrist away.
‘Keep your filthy hands to yourself,’ he snarled. ‘Where is Miss Merrill?’
‘I am sorry to say she has met with a slight accident,’ Dangle replied, speaking quickly and with placatory gestures; ‘not in any way serious, only a twisted ankle. I found her on the road on my way back from chasing you, leaning up against the stone wall which runs along the lane at the back of Blessington’s house. She had hurt herself in climbing down to get the tracing which you threw over. I called my sister and we helped her into the house, and Susan bathed and bound up her ankle and fixed her up comfortably on the sofa. It is not really a sprain, but it will be painful for a day or two.’
Cheyne was taken aback not only by his enemy’s knowledge, but also by being talked to in so friendly a fashion, and in his relief at the news he felt his anger draining away.
‘You’ve got the tracing again, I suppose?’ he said ruefully.
Dangle smiled.
‘Well, yes, we have,’ he agreed. ‘But I have to admit it was the result of two lucky chances; first, my sister’s and my return just when we did, and second, Miss Merrill’s unfortunate false step over the wall. But your scheme was a good one, and with ordinary luck you would have pulled it off.’
Cheyne grunted, and Dangle, turning towards him, went on earnestly: ‘Look here, Mr Cheyne, why should we be on opposite sides in this affair? I have spoken to my partners, and we are all agreed. You are the kind of man we want, and we believe we could be of benefit to one another. In fact, to make a long story short, I am authorised to lay before you a certain proposition. I believe it will appeal to you. It is for that purpose I should like to go somewhere where we could talk. If not to your hotel, I know a place a few hundred yards down this street where we could get a private room.’
‘I want to go out and see Miss Merrill.’
‘Of course you do. But Miss Merrill was asleep when I left and most probably will sleep for an hour or two yet, so there is time enough. I beg that you will first hear what I have to say. Then we can go out together.’
‘Well, come to my hotel,’ Cheyne said ungraciously, and the two walked along, Dangle making tentative essays in conversation, all of which were brought to nought by the uncompromising brevity of his companion’s responses.
‘You’d better come up to my bedroom,’ Cheyne growled when at last they reached their goal. ‘These dratted servants are cleaning the public rooms.’
In silence they sought the lift and Cheyne led the way to his apartment. Bolting the door, he pointed to a chair, stood himself with his back to the empty fireplace and remarked impatiently: ‘Well?’
Dangle laughed lightly.
‘I see you’re not going to help me out, Mr Cheyne, and I suppose I can scarcely wonder at it. Well, I’ll get ahead without further delay. But, as I’ve a good deal to say, I should suggest you sit down, and if you don’t mind, I’ll smoke. Try one of these Coronas; they were given to me, so you needn’t mind taking one. No? I wonder would you mind if I rang and ordered some coffee and rolls? I’ve not breakfasted yet and I’m hungry.’
With a bad grace Cheyne rang the bell.
‘Coffee and rolls for two,’ Dangle ordered when an attendant came to the door. ‘You will join me, won’t you? Even if my mission comes to nothing and we remain enemies, there’s no reason why we should make our interview more unpleasant than is necessary.’
Cheyne strode up and down the room.
‘But I don’t want the confounded interview,’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘For goodness’ sake get along and say what you have to say and clear out. I haven’t forgotten the Enid.’
‘No, that was illegal, wasn’t it? Almost as bad as breaking and entering, burglary and theft. But now, there’s no kind of sense in squabbling. Sit down and listen and I’ll tell you a story that will interest you in spite of yourself.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ Cheyne said with sarcasm as he flung himself into a chair, ‘but if it’s going to be more lies about St John Price and the Hull succession you may save your breath.’
Dangle smiled whimsically. ‘It was for your sake, Mr Cheyne; perhaps not quite legitimate, but still done with the best intention. I told you that yarn—I admit, of course, it was a yarn—simply to make it easy for you to give up the letter. I knew that nothing would induce you to part with it if you thought it dishonourable; hence the story.’
Cheyne laughed harshly.
‘And what will be the objec
t of the new yarn?’
‘This time it won’t be a yarn. I will tell you the truth.’
‘And you expect me to believe it?’
Dangle leaned forward and spoke more earnestly.
‘You will believe it, not, I’m afraid, because I tell it, but because it is capable of being checked. A great portion of it can be substantiated by inquiries at the Admiralty and elsewhere, and your reason will satisfy you as to the remainder.’
‘Well, go on and get it over anyway.’
Dangle, once more smilingly shrugged his shoulders, lit his cigar and began:
‘My tale commences as before with our mutual friend, Arnold Price, and once again it goes back to the year 1917. In February of ’17 Arnold Price was, as you know, third mate of the Maurania, and I was on the same ship in command of her bow gun—she had guns mounted fore and aft. I hadn’t known Price before, but we became friends—not close friends, but as intimate as most men who are cooped up together for months on the same ship.
‘In February, ’17, as we were coming into the Bay on our way from South Africa, we sighted a submarine. I needn’t worry you with the details of what followed. It’s enough to say that we tried to escape, and failing, showed fight. As it chanced, by a stroke of the devil’s own luck we plumped a shell into her just abaft the conning tower after she rose and before she could get her gun trained on us. She heeled over and began to sink by the stern. I confess that I’d have watched those devils drown, as they had done many of our poor fellows, but the old man wasn’t that way inclined and he called for volunteers to get out one of the boats. Price was the first man to offer, and they got a boat lowered away and pulled for the submarine. She disappeared before they could get up to her, and we could see her crew clinging to wreckage. The men in the boat pulled all out to get there before they were washed away, for there was a bit of a sea running, the end of a south-wester that had just blown itself out. Well, some of the crew held on and they got them into the boat, others couldn’t stick it and were lost. The captain was there clinging on to a lifebelt, but just as the boat came up he let go and was sinking, when Arnold Price jumped overboard and caught him and supported him until they got a rope round him and pulled him aboard. I didn’t see that myself, but I heard about it afterwards. The captain’s name was Otto Schulz, and when they got him aboard the Maurania and fixed up in bed they found that he had had a knock on the head that would probably do for him. But all the same Price had saved his life, and what was more, had saved it at the risk of his own. That is the first point in my story.’
Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery Page 13
