“You don’t understand.” He could hear her voice trembling. “You simply don’t understand. I must go. The only question is, will you come with me, or have I got to go alone?”
Peter was feeling justly annoyed. How women did panic over business! But, of course, he couldn’t let Sylvia go and interview some brute of a money-lender by herself. He said without enthusiasm:
“Oh, I’ll come,” and heard her give a sort of gasp before she answered:
“I’ll call for you, then; I’ve got a taxi.”
The ring-off followed immediately. Peter went back and finished his letter. He had meant to polish off half a dozen more, but he supposed that they would have to wait.
When he got into the taxi beside Sylvia he was feeling a good deal ruffled. He began to express his feelings.
“You know, my dear girl, this is the most awful rot. It is really.”
“What is?” said Sylvia coolly.
“Your charging off at this time of night to go and do business with some beastly money-lender. Who is the brute, anyway?”
“His name’s Robinson,” said Sylvia, “and he isn’t exactly a money-lender. He’s—he’s—I don’t exactly know how to describe him.”
The taxi was going along at a good pace.
“I don’t want you to describe him; and I don’t want you to go and see him. I want you to let me take you home. If it’s absolutely necessary, I’ll go and see him myself. But it’s all nonsense your running after the man at this time of night. I can’t see where this frightful hurry comes in.”
“I must go,” said Sylvia in a low, despairing voice. “I must go. I’d give anything in the world to go home again, but I can’t. If I don’t see him tonight, it’s all up.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Peter crossly.
“You needn’t.” Her voice was full of sadness. “You can stop the taxi this minute, and get out and go home. I oughtn’t to have asked you to come; it was stupid of me.”
Peter was very angry. He thought Sylvia a most unreasonable woman, and he would have liked to take her home and lock her in her flat out of harm’s way. This course being impossible, he told her gruffly not to talk nonsense, to which Sylvia replied by slipping one of her hands into his and saying, in a voice shaken by emotion:
“You are coming with me, then? Oh, I knew you wouldn’t fail me.”
Peter took his hand away.
“If you insist upon going, of course I’ll come with you. Where does this man hang out?”
“It’s a house at Wimbledon,” said Sylvia.
“Wimbledon? Good lord, Sylvia!”
“It’s his own house,” said Sylvia meekly. “He’s going abroad tomorrow, so it’s my only chance of seeing him personally. I do dread being put off by a clerk who says he has no authority. I do think a personal interview with the man who has really got the whole thing in his hands—well, it means so much more, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said Peter. “I should have everything in writing if I were you.” Then, after a pause, “You know I’m absolutely in the dark. Who is this fellow? Do you owe him money?”
“Y—yes,” said Sylvia. She dreaded Peter’s downright questions, but for the moment she could think of no way of escape from them.
“How much?”
“I—I don’t like to say.”
Peter prayed for patience.
“My dear girl, what do you want me to do? Am I to talk to this man for you? Or am I just to stand by whilst you talk to him?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Sylvia.
“All right. I just wanted to know, that’s all. Then I won’t ask you any more questions.”
They drove on in silence. It was dark, cloudy, and rather airless. Presently they left houses behind them, and emerged upon a stretch of common.
“Do you know the place? Are we nearly there?” said Peter.
“I’ve never been there,” said Sylvia rather faintly.
As she spoke the car left the main road, turned in amongst trees, and followed a long, winding drive. Keith Lodge stood by itself in large wooded grounds. The drive was a very long one, and there were trees everywhere. At times the overhanging branches barely cleared the top of the car. They drew up with a grinding sound on a gravel sweep. The driver jumped down and opened the door.
Peter felt Sylvia’s ungloved hand tremble in his as he helped her out; her hand was very cold. His heart smote him for his ill-humour, and he gave her arm a little reassuring pat.
“It’ll be all right. Don’t worry,” he said, and heard her draw a sharp breath.
She made no other reply, and they went up to the front door in silence.
Peter thought the house very dark and forbidding. The windows on their right were shuttered. A pencil of light came through a knot-hole. The fanlight above the front door showed a faint glow. Otherwise the house was in darkness. With his hand on the knocker, he turned.
“Look here, Sylvia, I don’t like the look of this place,” he said. “There’s something fishy about it. Why on earth does the man want to see people at night? You’d much better let me bring you down tomorrow at a reasonable hour.”
She reached past him, caught at the knocker, her hand on his, and knocked sharply. Her hand was not cold now, but burning hot.
“No, no, we can’t go back,” she said.
She had not looked behind her, but she knew very well that the taxi-driver had followed them. There was certainly no going back.
“Go and sit in the car,” said Peter. “I can see the man.”
As he spoke the door opened, not widely; about a foot of tessellated pavement showed in a dimmish light.
Peter put his hand on Sylvia’s arm and asked:
“Is Mr. Robinson at home?” He spoke to the merest silhouette of a man standing there in the narrow opening.
The man drew back, the door opened a little wider. With a sudden jerk Sylvia freed herself and passed quickly into the hall. Clear in Peter’s memory there rose the very feel of that wet and windy night, twelve years ago, when little Rose Ellen had pulled her hand from his and run to meet adventure at Merton Clevery. He stepped forward, following Sylvia as he had followed Rose Ellen, and sharp across the moment of dreamy recollection there struck the sound of his own footsteps and Sylvia’s, echoing as footsteps only echo in an empty house.
CHAPTER XXX
Peter had only a momentary impression of the hall as a large, square emptiness made visible by the small flicker of a candle-end that guttered and went out in the draught of the closing door. There was no wind, but the hall door had slammed. Peter took a quick stride away from it. The door had not shut of itself; and, with every sense alert, he was aware that someone had come in after him and was there, close to him in the dark. He could hear the sound of breathing, the sound of stealthy movement.
He called aloud, “Sylvia, where are you?” and at once changed his position. There was no answer, no sound but the echo of his own voice coming back to him from empty spaces. And then, with swift unexpectedness, two things happened. Right in front of him a door opened inwards upon a lighted room; and at the same moment someone rushed him from behind and impelled him violently forward.
Taken unawares, he broke into a stumbling run, and so came into the lighted room, and heard the door fall to behind him. Hendebakker’s voice rang sharply in his ears:
“Hands up, Waring. Hands up, or I fire!”
Peter got his balance, and, falling back a pace, put up his hands.
The room was large, some thirty feet by forty. It was entirely unfurnished, and its parquet floor stood thick with dust. There were wooden shutters. The walls were panelled, and the paint, which had once been white, was stained and discoloured. On one end of the white marble mantelpiece was a portable electric lamp. Against the other end leaned Virgil Hendebakker, his dark coat smeared with dust and an automatic pistol in his hand. The pistol was pointed at Peter.
“Good evening, Waring,” he said cheerfully. “I’m real
sorry to bring you so far, but business is business.”
Peter measured the distance between them, and decided that a rush was not good enough. In a smaller room he would have tried it; but thirty feet gave Hendebakker too many chances. He went back another pace, leaned against the wall, and said:
“Where’s Lady Moreland?”
Hendebakker smiled.
“I guess you needn’t worry about Lady Moreland,” he said. “It’s real nice of you, but you’re wasting your time doing it. Lady Moreland’s got as good a notion of looking after herself as any young woman I ever met. It’s Sylvia Moreland first, and the rest nowhere.”
“I suppose,” said Peter, “that you didn’t bring me here to discuss Lady Moreland—did you?”
“I did not. I wanted to talk business with you. I don’t have to tell you what the business is either, I reckon.”
Peter said nothing. After a moment Hendebakker went on:
“I’m free to confess that you and Dale were one up on me at Sunnings. Now, Waring, you take notice of what I say. No one stays one up on me for very long—and why? Because I make it my business to get square. I’m a pretty efficient man of business, and when I set out to do a thing I do it.”
“You’re a pretty good hand at blowing your own trumpet, aren’t you?” said Peter.
“Fair,” said Hendebakker. “Fair. Only a fool thinks he can do without advertising nowadays. Now, Waring, where’s the Jewel?”
Peter was silent.
“Waring,” said Hendebakker, “you make me tired. I’m not bluffing; I’ve got facts to go on. Dale sent me a message to say he was leaving the Jewel behind him. Well, you may think it strange that I’d take his word for it; but that’s because you don’t know Dale as well as I do. I suppose it’s the same with all of us; there are things we’ll do, and there are things we won’t do. Why, there’s a thing or two I wouldn’t do myself. So that’s where it is. Dale wouldn’t lie about the Jewel. I knew that; so, as soon as I got his message, I knew for sure that he hadn’t taken it with him, and I knew for sure that he hadn’t passed it on to his daughter. She’d have been ready enough to do a deal with me if she’d had anything to bargain with.” He laughed rather grimly, and added, “It’s up to you. What about it?”
“Do you generally talk business like this?” said Peter. “Because I don’t. Put down that damned revolver of yours if you want me to talk.”
“It’s an automatic,” said Hendebakker, “and I rather think I’ll keep it where it is. It feels handy. But, if you’ll pass me your word that you’re not armed, you can put your hands down. I’ve had mine up for half an hour or so before now and it’s mighty uncomfortable. Are you armed?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, then, put them down. And now, to resume—what about it?”
“As far as I’m concerned, nothing,” said Peter, putting his hands in his pockets.
“That,” said Hendebakker, “is unwise. Come, Waring, what’s the good of the Jewel to you? You can’t sell it; you can’t wear it; you can’t hide it. I tell you I mean to have it.”
“Very well, then, get it, Henders,” said Peter. “I can’t stop you, can I? I can’t sell it; or wear it; or hide it, as you say. Go on and get it, and be damned to you.”
“Now what’s the good of losing your temper over a business conversation?” said Hendebakker. “It’s right down foolish. Come now, Waring, I said you couldn’t sell the Jewel, but that’s where I was wrong. You can sell it to me. I’ll give you five thousand for it—not dollars, pounds—five thousand pounds.”
“No, thanks, Henders.”
“Ten,” said Hendebakker. “I never thought you’d take five, but ten—say, Waring, figure it out to yourself—ten thousand pounds at five per cent or more against a Jewel that’ll never be anything but trouble for you, and bad trouble at that. You’re not such a blame’ fool as to hesitate?”
“Nothing doing, Henders,” said Peter quite cheerfully.
“Fifteen thousand pounds,” said Hendebakker, stretching out his left hand, palm upwards, as if it held the money. “It’s a fancy price, but, if I choose to pay for my fancy, it’s nobody’s business but my own.”
Peter laughed suddenly.
“Go it, Henders,” he said. “Why stop at fifteen thousand?”
Henders’ outstretched hand dropped to his side. Peter, watching, saw it clench till the knuckles whitened. He wondered at the man’s self-control, for, if his hand betrayed him, his face did not; nor did his voice as he said:
“Well, what’s your price?”
“Haven’t got one,” said Peter. “There’s nothing doing, Henders, and you’ll save us both a lot of trouble if you’ll take that as final.”
“That so?”
“That’s so.”
Their eyes met in a long, hard stare. Then, with great suddenness, Hendebakker pulled out a whistle and blew it twice. The door opened instantly and two men came in, the taxi-driver and another.
“Tie him up,” said Hendebakker; and there ensued what Peter afterwards described as a scrum.
The moment Hendebakker spoke, Peter swung round upon the nearer of the two men, aiming a blow at his jaw. As he swung, his foot slipped on a splash of candle-grease, and he came down, grabbing at the man and bringing him with him. Before he could recover, the taxi-driver was on him, wrenching his right arm backwards; and quick upon that Hendebakker came up at a run, and the muzzle of his pistol was jammed against Peter’s ear. The first man scrambled up, produced a rope, and secured Peter’s arms behind his back.
“Now, get up and march,” said Hendebakker, and gave him a push with his foot. Peter stumbled to his feet.
The taxi-driver fetched the lamp, and they came through the hall to a dark and steep stairway which led to the basement. Peter was furiously angry, but he had his wits about him. He made no further struggle, because, as long as his legs were free, there was just a chance of something turning up; also he felt that he would prefer walking to being carried down that steep stair.
They arrived in an echoing basement; a huge, deserted kitchen with a rusting range; large, dim passages; a stone-flagged hall; and a door opening upon another stair, steeper still, with narrow steps which hardly gave room for a man’s foot.
“I reckon it isn’t every house has got such mighty convenient cellars,” said Hendebakker.
He looked round approvingly as he spoke, motioning to Robinson to hold up the lamp. There was an open space at the foot of the stairs. To the right a long stone passage faded into gloom.
“Right along there,” said Hendebakker, “and the second door on the left. It isn’t locked—yet.”
The door opened outwards, and, the man Robinson going in first with the light, Peter came into a small, close cellar some ten feet by seven or eight.
“Now tie his legs,” said Hendebakker. He did not speak again until Peter, with his legs roped together, had been deposited in a sitting position with his back against the cellar wall. Then, the men having gone out and shut the door, he said reprovingly:
“You’re a mighty foolish young man, and you’re giving me a lot of trouble. There’s no reason in this foolishness, and the sooner you quit and come to terms, the better for us all.”
The electric lamp stood on the floor. Its searching light illumined the little square room, with its walls of whitewashed brick and floor of heavy flagstones. Across the narrow space Peter glared at Hendebakker.
“You will answer for this, Henders,” he said at last.
“Now, what’s the use of that sort of talk? I guess you’re soothing yourself with the thought of me in the dock, and you in the witness-box, and one of your judges giving me a seven years’ stretch. Well, that’s just dope—you take it from me, it’s just dope. Why, if there’s one feature of this Jewel business that stands out more than another, it’s the plain fact that none of the parties in the case have ever been in a position to go to the courts about it. There was Dale and me. He robbed me, for sure—took the J
ewel and went at a time when he knew I was having trouble and couldn’t come after him. Do you suppose I wouldn’t have had the law on him if I could? Why, of course I would; but I just wasn’t in the position where the law was worth a dime to me, and Dale knew it. You may say that’s neither here nor there, but take your own case. I’m free to admit that you’ve a better legal case than either Dale or I have, and a better record too. But just you think a moment. We’ll say you’re sore about Lady Moreland; you’ve a right to be, but how’d you like it if it were she that was in the dock? You can’t touch me without you touch her—you can’t do it. If you ever move hand or finger against me over this business I’ll take mighty good care that she gets half of whatever’s coming to me.”
“What a damned swab you are, Henders!” said Peter.
“Now, you go easy, and listen to me. Your friend Lady More-land’s in this game up to her very neck—right up to her neck she’s in it. Who got the keys of this house from the agents? Lady Moreland. Who brought you here? Lady Moreland. Who let me know you were going to Sunnings? Who told me for sure that you had the Jewel? Lady Moreland.”
The realization that Henders was speaking the truth rushed in upon Peter in a bitter flood. Sylvia had gone back on him, had given him away at every turn. She was Hendebakker’s tool, in it up to her neck, as he had said.
“Courts of law aren’t the only place where one can settle up,” he said grimly.
“That’s so,” said Hendebakker. “That’s why we’re here. Now, let me put the case quite plainly to you for a moment. This is an isolated house, standing—well, I dare say you noticed how far it stands back from the road. It’s been empty, I understand, for something like seven years; and I’m told it has a real lively reputation for being haunted. These cellars are way down underground, as you know. Just taking these facts into consideration, how long do you suppose you might stay here before someone happened in upon your bones? Quite a time, I should judge; but I’ll be interested to have your opinion.”
“Are you proposing to murder me?” said Peter. “I should think twice about it, if I were you. Murder is risky work in this country.”
The Annam Jewel Page 19
