THE UNINVITED GUEST
There are moments in life when the need for prompt action is so urgent
that thought, decision and action must be as one operation of the
brain. In the general consternation following on the dramatic
appearance of this uninvited guest, Desmond had a brief respite in
which to think over his position.
Should he make a dash for it or stay where he was and await
developments?
Without a second’s hesitation; he decided on the latter course. With
the overpowering odds against him it was more than doubtful whether he
could ever reach the library door. Besides, to go was to abandon
absolutely all hope of capturing the gang; for his flight would warn
the conspirators that the game was up. On the other hand, the new-comer
might be an ally, perhaps an emissary of the Chief’s. The strange
behavior of the odd man had shown that something was afoot outside of
which those in the library were unaware. Was the uninvited guest the
_deus ex machina_ who was to help him, Desmond, out of his present
perilous fix?
Meanwhile the stranger had stepped into the room, drawing the secret
door to behind him. Desmond heard his heavy step and the dull thud of
the partition swinging into place. The sound seemed to break the spell
that hung over the room.
Mortimer was the first to recover his presence of mind. Crying out to
No. 13 to lock the door leading into the hall, he fumbled for a moment
at the table. Desmond caught the noise of a match being scratched and
the next moment the library was again bathed in the soft radiance of
the lamp.
Picking up the light, Mortimer strode across to the stranger.
“What do _you_ want here” he demanded fiercely, “and who the devil...”
He broke off without completing his sentence, drawing back in
amazement. For the rays of the lamp fell upon the pale face of a
stoutish, bearded man, veering towards middle age standing in front of
Mortimer. And the face was the face of the stoutish, bearded man,
veering towards middle age, who stood in the shadow a few paces
_behind_ Mortimer. Each man was a complete replica of the other, save
that the face of the new arrival was thin and haggard with that
yellowish tinge which comes from long confinement.
As Mortimer staggered back, the uninvited guest recoiled in his turn.
He was staring fixedly across the room at his double who met his gaze
firmly, erect, tense, silent. The others looked in sheer stupefaction
from one to the other of the two Mr. Bellwards. For nearly a minute the
only sound in the room was the deep ticking of the clock, counting away
the seconds separating him from eternity, Desmond thought.
It was Mrs. Malplaquet who broke the silence. Suddenly her nerves
snapped under the strain, and she screamed aloud.
“A—ah!” she cried, “look! There are two of them! No, no, it can’t be!”
And she sank half fainting on the sofa.
Behrend whipped out a pistol from his hip pocket and thrust it in
Mortimer’s face.
“Is this another of your infernal surprise packets?” he demanded
fiercely.
All the spies seemed on a sudden to be armed, Desmond noted, all, that
is, save Mrs. Malplaquet who lay cowering on the settee. Mortimer had
pulled out his super-Mauser; No. 13, who was guarding the door, had a
revolver in his hand, and Behrend, as has been stated, was threatening
Mortimer with his Browning.
Now Max advanced threateningly into the room, a long seaman’s knife in
his hand..
“Put that blarsted shooting-iron awiy!” he snarled at Mortimer, “and
tell us wot’s the little gime, will yer! Come on, egpline!”
With absolute self-possession Mortimer turned from the stranger to
Desmond.
“I think it is up to the twins to explain,” he said almost
nonchalantly, “suppose we hear what this gentleman, who arrived so
surprisingly through the book-shelves, has to say?”
Though threatened with danger from two sides, from the gang and
possibly, as far as he knew, from the stranger, Mortimer was perfectly
calm. Desmond never admired Maurice Strangwise more than in that
moment. All eyes now turned questioningly towards the new arrival. As
for Desmond he drew back as far as he dared into the shadow. He knew he
was in the direst peril; but he was not afraid for himself. He was
crushed to the ground by the sickening feeling that he was going to be
beaten, that the gang were going to slip through his fingers after
all... and he was powerless to prevent it.
He guessed at once what had happened. Bellward must have escaped from
custody; for there was no disguise about this pale, flustered creature
who had the cowed look of a hunted man in his eyes. He must have come
to the Mill House to get his motorcycle; for he surely would have known
that the villa would be the first place to which the police would
follow him up.
Desmond saw a little ray of hope. If—it was a very big if—Bellward’s
flight were discovered promptly, the police might be expected to reach
the Mill House very soon behind him. Bellward must have come straight
there; for he had not even taken the very elementary precaution of
shaving off his beard. That made Desmond think that he must have
escaped some time that evening after the barbers’ shops were closed.
With thumping heart, with bated breath, he waited for what was to come.
In a very little while, he told himself, the truth must come out. His
only chance was to try and bluff his way out of this appalling dilemma
and above all, at all costs—this was the essential fact which, he told
himself, he must keep steadfastly before his eyes—not to lose sight of
Mortimer whatever happened.
Bellward’s voice—and its tones showed Desmond what an accomplished mime
Crook had been—broke the silence.
“I have nothing to explain,” he said, turning from the sofa where he
had been exchanging a few words in an undertone with Mrs. Malplaquet,
“this is my house. That is sufficient explanation for my presence here,
I imagine. But I confess I am curious to know what this person”—he
indicated Desmond—“is doing in _my_ clothes, if I mistake not, giving
what I take to be a very successful impersonation of myself.”
Then Desmond stepped boldly out of the shadow into the circle of light
thrown by the lamp.
“I don’t know what you all think,” he said firmly, “but it seems to me
singularly unwise for us to stand here gossiping when there is a
stranger amongst us. I fail to understand the motive of this gentleman
in breaking into _my_ house by _my_ private door, wearing _my_ clothes,
if I am to believe my eyes; but I clearly realize the danger of
admitting strangers to a gathering of this kind.”
“Quite right,” agreed Behrend, nodding his head in assent.
“You have had one singular surprise to-night already,” Desmond resumed,
“in the matter of the jewel which our respected leader was about to
show us: if you recollect, our friend was only prevented from giving us
the explanation which he certainly owed us over his little hoax by the
arrival, the most timely arrival, of his confederate...”
“Confederate?” shouted Mortimer, “what the devil do you mean by that?”
“Yes, confederate,” Desmond repeated. “Max, Behrend, Mrs. Malplaquet,
all of you, look at this wretched fellow”—he pointed a finger of scorn
at Bellward—“trembling with fright at the role that has been thrust
upon him, to force his way into our midst, to give his accomplice the
tip to clear out before the police arrive.”
“Stop!” exclaimed Mortimer, raising his pistol. Behrend caught his
hand.
“We’ll hear _you_ in a minute!” he said.
“Let him finish!” said Mrs. Malplaquet, and there was a certain ominous
quietness in her tone that startled Desmond.
As for Bellward, he remained silent, with arms folded, listening very
intently.
“Doubtless, this double of mine,” continued Desmond in a mocking voice,
“is the bearer of the Star of Poland, the wonderful jewel which has
required our beloved leader to devote so much of his time to a certain
charming lady. Bah! are you going to let a man like this,” and he
pointed to Mortimer disdainfully with his hand, “a man who puts you in
the fighting line while he amuses himself in the rear, are you going to
let this false friend, this bogus spy, cheat you like this? My friends,
my advice to you, if you don’t want to have another and yet more
disagreeable surprise, is to make sure that this impudent imposter is
not here for the purpose of selling us all!”
He raised his voice until it rang through the room, at the same time
looking round the group at the faces of the spies to see how his
harangue had worked upon their feelings. Max and Behrend, he could see,
were on his side; No. 13 was obviously, undecided; Mortimer and
Bellward were, of course, against him; Mrs. Malplaquet sat with her
hands in her lap, her eyes cast down, giving no sign.
“It’s high time...” Mortimer began violently but Mrs. Malplaquet put up
her hand and checked him.
“Better hear Bellward!” she said softly.
“I know nothing of what has been taking place in my absence,” he said,
“either here or outside. I only know that I escaped from the escort
that was taking me back from Scotland Yard to Brixton Prison this
evening and that the police are hard on my track. I have delayed too
long as, it is. Every one of us in this room, with the exception of the
traitor who is amongst us”—he pointed a finger in denunciation at
Desmond—“is in the most imminent peril as long as we stay here. The
rest of you can please yourselves. I’m off!”
He turned and pressed the spring. The book shelves swung open. Behrend
sprang forward.
“Not so fast,” he cried. “You don’t leave this room until we know who
you are!”
And he covered him with his pistol.
“Fool!” exclaimed Bellward who had stopped on the threshold of the
secret door, “do you want to trap the lot of us! Tell him, Minna,” he
said to Mrs. Malplaquet, “and for Heaven’s sake, let us be gone!”
Mrs. Malplaquet stood up.
“This is Basil Bellward,” she said, “see, he’s wearing the ring I gave
him, a gold snake with emerald eyes! And now,” she cried, raising her
voice shrilly, “before we go, kill that man!”
And she pointed at Desmond.
Bellward had seized her by the arm and was dragging her through the
opening in the shed when a shrill whistle resounded from the garden.
Without any warning Mortimer swung round and fired point-blank at
Desmond. But Desmond had stooped to spring at the other and the bullet
went over his head. With ears singing from the deafening report of the
pistol in the confined space, with the acrid smell of cordite in his
nostrils, Desmond leapt at Mortimer’s throat, hoping to bear him to the
ground before he could shoot again. As he sprang he heard the crash of
glass and a loud report. Someone cried out sharply “Oh!” as though in
surprise and fell prone between him and his quarry; then he stumbled
and at the same time received a crashing blow on the head. Without a
sound he dropped to the ground across a body that twitched a little and
then lay still.
Somewhere in the far, far distance Desmond heard a woman crying—long
drawn-out wailing lamentations on a high, quavering note. He had a
dull, hard pain in his head which felt curiously stiff. Drowsily he
listened for a time to the woman’s sobbing, so tired, so curiously
faint that he scarcely cared to wonder what it signified. But at last
it grated on him by its insistency and he opened his eyes to learn the
cause of it.
His bewildered gaze fell upon what seemed to him a gigantic, ogre-like
face, as huge, as grotesque, as a pantomime mask. Beside it was a
light, a brilliant light, that hurt his eyes.
Then a voice, as faint as a voice on a long distance telephone, said:
“Well, how are you feeling?”
The voice was so remote that Desmond paid no attention to it. But he
was rather surprised to hear a voice reply, a voice that came from his
own lips, curiously enough:
“Fine!”
So he opened his eyes again to ascertain the meaning of this
phenomenon. This time the ogre-like face came into focus, and Desmond
saw a man with a tumbler in his hand bending over him.
“That’s right,” said the man, looking very intently at him, “feel a bit
better, eh? Got a bit of a crack, what? Just take a mouthful of
brandy... I’ve got it here!”
Desmond obediently swallowed the contents of the glass that the other
held to his lips. He was feeling horribly weak, and very cold. His
collar and shirt were unbuttoned, and his neck and shoulders were
sopping wet with water. On his ears still fell the wailing of the
woman.
“Corporal,” said the man bending over him, “just go and tell that old
hag to hold her noise! She’ll have to go out of the house if she can’t
be quiet!”
Desmond opened his eyes again. He was lying on the settee in the
library. A tall figure in khaki, who had been stirring the fire with
his boot, turned at the doctor’s summons and left the room. On the
table the lamp was still burning but its rays were neutralized by the
glare of a crimson dawn which Desmond could see flushing the sky
through the shattered panes of the French window. In the centre of the
floor lay a long object covered by a tablecloth, beside it a table
overturned with a litter of broken glass strewn about the carpet.
The woman’s sobbing ceased. The corporal came back into the room.
“She’ll be quiet now, sir,” he said, “I told her to get you and the
gentlemen a cup o’ tea.”
Then, to Desmond, he said:
“Nasty ding you got, sir! My word, I thought they’d done for you when I
come in at the winder!”
The telephone on the desk tingled sharply. The door opened at the same
moment and a shabby little old man with sandy side whiskers and
moleskin trousers came briskly in.
His appearance had a curious effect on the patient on the settee.
Despite the doctor’s restraining hand, he struggled into a sitting
position, staring in bewilderment at the shabby old man who had gone
straight to the telephone and lifted the receiver. And well might
Desmond stare; for here was Mr. John Hill, the odd man, talking on the
telephone. And his voice...
“Well?” said the man at the telephone, curtly.
“Yes, speaking. You’ve got her, eh? Good. What’s that? Well, that’s
something. No trace of the others? Damn!”
He slammed down the receiver and turned to face the settee.
“Francis!” cried Desmond.
And then he did a thing highly unbecoming in a field officer. He burst
into tears.