WHAT THE CELLAR REVEALED
On opening the door at the farther end of the tap-room they saw before
them a trap-door standing wide with a shallow flight of wooden steps
leading to the darkness below. Bates pointed with his foot to a square
of linoleum which lay on one side.
“That was covering the trap,” he said, “I wouldn’t ha’ noticed nothing
out of the ordinary myself only I slipped, see, and kicked this bit o’
ilecloth away and there was the ring of the trap staring me in the
face, as you might say. Show us a light here, Gordon!”
Gordon handed him an electric torch. He flashed it down the stair. It
fell upon something like a heap of black clothes huddled up at the foot
of the ladder.
“Is it Miss Mackwayte?” whispered Francis to his brother. “I’ve never
seen her, you know!”
“I can’t tell,” Desmond whispered back, “until I see her face.”
He advanced to descend the ladder but Matthews was before him.
Producing an electric torch from his pocket, Matthews slipped down the
stair with Gordon close behind. There was a pause, so tense that it
seemed an eternity to Desmond, as he waited half-way down the ladder
with the musty smell of the cellar in his nostrils. Then Matthews
cried:
“It’s not her!”
“Let me look!” Gordon broke in. Then Desmond heard him exclaim.
“It’s Nur-el-Din’s French maid! It’s Marie... she’s been stabbed in the
back!”
Desmond suddenly felt rather sick. This progress from one deed of
violence to another revolted him. The others crowded into the cellar;
but he did not follow them. He remained at the top of the trap, leaning
against the wall, trying to collect his thoughts.
Barbara Mackwayte was now his sole preoccupation. If anything had
happened to her,—it was through his fault alone; for he began to feel
sure she must have come to the Mill House in his absence. What then had
become of her? The blood-stained toque pointed to foul play. But if
they had murdered her, what had they done with the body?
His thoughts flew back to his interview with Nur-el-Din upstairs on the
previous afternoon. He remembered the entrance of the maid and the
dancer’s hurried exit. Might not Marie have come to tell her that
Barbara Mackwayte was below asking for her? It was very shortly after
this interruption that, crouching on the roof of the shed, he had heard
that muffled cry from the house and seen Rass enter the bar and speak
with Strangwise. He had seen, too, the maid, Marie, in earnest
conversation with Strangwise by the back gate on the fen. Had both
Marie and Rass been in league with Strangwise against the dancer? And
had Nur-el-Din discovered their treachery? His mind refused to follow
these deductions to their logical sequence; for, black as things looked
against Nur-el-Din, he could not bring himself to believe her a
murderess.
But now there were footsteps on the ladder. They were all coming out of
the cellar again. As soon as Francis saw Desmond’s face, he caught his
brother by the arm and said:
“The open air for you, my boy! You look as if you’d seen a ghost! I
should have remembered all you’ve gone through!”
He walked him quickly through the tap-room and out through the inn door
into the yard.
The rain had ceased and the sun was making a brave attempt to shine
through the clouds. The cold air did Desmond good and after a turn or
two in the yard, arm in arm with Francis, he felt considerably better.
“Where is Miss Mackwayte?” he asked.
“Des,” said his brother, “I don’t know and I don’t want to
cross-examine Nur-el-Din in there until I have reasoned out some theory
which will fit Miss Mackwayte in her place in this horrible affair. The
men have gone to search the outhouses and precincts of the inn to see
if they can find any traces of her body, but I don’t think they will
find anything. I believe that Miss Mackwayte is alive.”
“Alive?” said Desmond.
“The blood on that toque of hers might have been Rass’s. There is a
good deal of blood on the floor. You see, I still think Miss
Mackwayte’s safety depends on that jewel not being recovered by either
Strangwise or Nur-el-Din. Strangwise, we know, has lost the jewel and
there is no trace of it here: moreover, we know that, as late as
yesterday afternoon, Nur-el-Din did not have it. Therefore, she cannot
have sent it away! I am inclined to believe, too, that Strangwise,
before going over to the Mill House last night, carried off Miss
Mackwayte somewhere with the aid of Rass and Marie, who were evidently
his accomplices, in order to find out from her where the jewel is
concealed...”
“But Miss Mackwayte cannot know what has become of it,” objected
Desmond.
“Maybe not,” retorted his brother, “but both Strangwise and Nur-el-Din
know that the jewel was originally entrusted to her charge. Nur-el-Din
did not, it is true, tell Miss Mackwayte what the silver box contained
but the latter may have found out, at least the dancer might suppose
so; while Strangwise might think the same. Therefore, both Strangwise
and Nur-el-Din had an interest in detaining Miss Mackwayte, and I think
Strangwise forestalled the dancer. When Nur-el-Din discovered it, both
Rass and her maid paid the penalty of their betrayal.”
They walked once up and down the yard before Desmond replied.
“Francis,” he said, “you remember Nur-el-Din’s story—I told it to you
just as I had it from her.”
“Perfectly,” answered his brother.
“Well,” Desmond went on deliberately, “I think that story gives us the
right measure of Nur-el-Din’s, character. She may be vain, she may be
without morals, she may be weak, she may be an adventuress, but she’s
not a murderess. If anything, she’s a victim!”
Francis laughed shortly.
“Victim be damned!” he cried. “Man alive,” he went on, “how can you
talk such nonsense in face of the evidence, with this bloody-minded
woman’s victims hardly cold yet? But, horrible as these murders are,
the private squabbles of this gang of spies represent neither your
interest nor mine in this case. For us the fact remains that
Nur-el-Din, besides being a monster of iniquity, is the heart and soul
and vitals of the whole conspiracy!”
Jaded and nervous, Desmond felt a quick sting of resentment at his
brother’s tone. Why should Francis thus lay down the law to him about
Nur-el-Din? Francis knew nothing of the girl or her antecedents while
he, Desmond, flattered himself that he had at least located the place
she occupied in this dark conspiracy. And he cried out vehemently:
“You’re talking like a fool! I grant you that Nur-el-Din has been mixed
up with this spy crowd; but she herself stands absolutely apart from
the organization...”
“Half a minute!” put in Francis, “aren’t you forgetting that blue
envelope we took off her just now?”
“What about it?” asked Desmond sharply.
“Merely this; the cipher is in five figure groups, addressed to a four
figure group and signed by a six figure group...”
“Well?”
“That happens to be the current secret code of the German Great General
Staff. If you were to tap a German staff message out in France to-day,
ten to one it would be in that code. Curious coincidence, isn’t it?”
When one is angry, to be baffled in argument does not have a sedative
effect as a rule. If we were all philosophers it might; but being
merely human beings, cold reason acts on the inflamed temperament as a
red rag is said to affect a bull.
Desmond, sick with the sense of failure and his anxiety about Barbara,
was in no mood to listen to reason. The cold logic of his brother
infuriated him mainly because Desmond knew that Francis was right.
“I don’t care a damn for the evidence,” vociferated Desmond; “It may
look black against Nur-el-Din; I daresay it does; but I have met and
talked to this girl and I tell you again that she is not a principal in
this affair but a victim!”
“You talk as if you were in love with the woman!” Francis said
mockingly.
Desmond went rather white.
“If pity is a form of love,” he replied in a low voice, “then I am, for
God knows I never pitied any woman as I pity Nur-el-Din! Only you, I
suppose,” he added bitterly, “are too much of the policeman, Francis,
to appreciate anything like that!” Hot tempers run in families and
Francis flared up on the instant.
“I may be a policeman, as you say,” he retorted, “but I’ve got enough
sense of my duty, I hope, not to allow sentimentality to interfere with
my orders!”
It was a shrewd thrust and it caught Desmond on the raw.
“I’m sick of arguing here,” he said hotly, “if you’re so mighty clever,
you’d better shoot Nur-el-Din first and arrest Strangwise afterwards.
Then you’ll find out which of us two is right!”
He turned on his heel and started for the little bridge leading out
onto the fen.
Francis stood still a moment watching him, then ran after him. He
caught up with Desmond as the latter reached the bridge.
“Desmond!” he said, pleadingly.
“Oh, go to hell!” retorted the other savagely, whereupon Francis turned
his back on him and walked back to the inn.
A car had stopped by the bridge and a man was getting out of it as
Desmond moved towards the fen. The next moment he found himself face to
face with the Chief.
The Chief’s face was hard and cold and stern. There was a furrow
between his eyes which deepened when he recognized Desmond.
“Well,” he said curtly, “and where is my secretary?”
“I don’t know,” Desmond faltered.
“Why are you here, then?” came back in that hard, uncompromising voice.
Desmond was about to reply; but the other checked him.
“I know all you have to say,” he resumed, “but no excuse you can offer
can explain away the disappearance of Miss Mackwayte. Your orders were
formal to remain at home. You saw fit to disobey them and thereby,
maybe, sent Miss Mackwayte to her death. No!” he added, seeing that
Desmond was about to expostulate, “I want to hear nothing from you.
However obscure the circumstances of Miss Mackwayte’s disappearance may
be, one fact is perfectly clear, namely, that she went to the Mill
House, as she was ordered and you were not there. For no man or woman
in my service ever dares to disobey an order I have given.”
“Chief...” Desmond broke in, but again that inexorable voice
interposed.
“I will hear nothing from you,” said the Chief, “it is a rule of mine
never to interfere with my men in their work or to see them until their
mission has been successfully completed. When you have found Miss
Mackwayte I will hear you but not before!”
Desmond drew himself up.
“In that case, sir,” he said stiffly, “I will bid you good morning. And
I trust you will hear from me very soon again!”
He walked over to one of the cars waiting outside the inn, spoke a word
to the driver and got in. The driver started the engine and presently
the car was bumping slowly along the muddy track to the main road.
The Chief stood looking after him.
“Well,” he murmured to himself. “I soaked it into him pretty hard; but
he took it like a brick. I do believe he’ll find her yet!”
He shook his head sagely and continued on his way across the yard.