THE RED LACQUER ROOM
The side-door led into a little white passage with a green baize door
at the end. A staircase, which from its white-washed treads, Desmond
judged to be the back stairs, gave on the passage. Calculating that the
men in the garden would be certain to use the main staircase, Desmond
took the back stairs which, on the first landing, brought him face to
face with a green baize door, similar in every respect to that on the
floor below.
He pushed this door open and listened. Hearing nothing he passed on
through it. He found himself in a broad corridor on to which gave the
main staircase from below and its continuation to the upper floors.
Three rooms opened on to this corridor, a large drawing-room, a small
study and what was obviously the doctor’s consulting room, from the
operating table and the array of instruments set out in glass cases.
The rooms were empty and Desmond was about to return to the back stairs
and proceed to the next floor when his attention was caught by a series
of framed photographs with which the walls of the corridor were lined.
These were groups of doctors taken at various medical congresses. You
will find such photographs in many doctors’ houses. Below each group
were neatly printed the names of the persons therein represented.
Anxious to see what manner of man was this Doctor Radcombe in whose
house spies were apparently at liberty to consort with impunity,
Desmond looked for his name.
There it was—Dr. A. J. Radcombe. But, on looking at the figure above
the printed line, what was his astonishment to recognize the angular
features and drooping moustache of “No. 13”!
There was no possible mistake about it. The photographs were excellent
and Desmond had no difficulty in identifying the eccentric-looking
German in each of them. So this was Mrs. Malplaquet’s house, was it? A
nursing-home run by “No. 13,” who in addition to being a spy, would
seem to have been a nerve specialist as well. In this guise, no doubt,
he had made trips to the South of England which had gained for him that
intimate acquaintance with Portsmouth and Southsea of which he had
boasted at the gathering in the library. In this capacity, moreover, he
had probably met Bellward whose “oggult” powers, to which “No. 13” had
alluded, seem to point to mesmerism and kindred practices in which
German neurasthenic research has made such immense progress.
Pondering over his surprising discovery, Desmond pursued his way to the
floor above. Here, too, was a green baize door which opened on to a
corridor. Desmond walked quickly along it, glancing in, as he passed,
at the open doors of two or three bedrooms. Just beyond where the
staircase crossed the corridor were two doors, both of which were
closed. The one was a white door and might have been a bathroom; the
other was enameled a brilliant, glossy red.
The second floor was as silent and deserted as the corridor below. But
just as Desmond passed the head of the main staircase he heard the
sound of voices. He glanced cautiously down the well of the stairs and
saw Strangwise and Bellward talking together. Bellward was on the
stairs while Strangwise stood in the corridor.
“It’s our last chance,” Strangwise was saying.
“No, no,” Bellward replied heatedly, “I tell you it is madness. We must
not delay a minute. For Heaven’s sake, leave the girl alone and let’s
save ourselves.”
“What?” cried Strangwise, “and abandon Minna!”
“Minna is well able to look after herself,” answered Bellward in a
sulky voice, “it’s a question of _sauve qui peut_ now... every man for
himself!”
“No!” said Strangwise firmly, “we’ll wait for Minna, Bellward. You
exaggerate the danger. I tell you I was at the garden wall within a few
seconds of our friend laying you out, and I saw no sign of him in his
garden. It was a physical impossibility for him to have got over the
wall and back into the house in the time. And in his garden there’s
nowhere to hide. It’s as bare as the Sahara!”
“But, good Heavens!” cried Bellward, throwing his hands excitedly above
his head, “the man can’t dissolve into thin air. He’s gone back to the
house, I tell you, and the police will be here at any minute. You know
he’s not in our garden; for you searched every nook and corner of it
yourself. Okewood may be too clever for you, Strangwise; but he’s not a
magician!”
“No,” said Strangwise sternly, “he is not.” And he added in a low
voice:
“That’s why I am convinced that he is in this house!”
Desmond felt his heart thump against his ribs.
Bellward seemed surprised for he cried quickly:
“What? Here?”
Strangwise nodded.
“You stand here gossiping with that man loose in the house?” exclaimed
Bellward vehemently, “why the next thing we know the fellow will escape
us again!”
“Oh, no, he won’t” retorted the other. “Every window on the ground
floor is barred... this is a home for neurasthenics, you know, and that
is sometimes a polite word for a lunatic, my friend... and the doors,
both front and back are locked. The keys are here!”
Desmond heard a jingle as Strangwise slapped his pocket.
“All the same,” the latter went on, “it is as well to be prepared for a
sudden change of quarters. That’s why I want you to finish off the girl
at once. Come along, we’ll start now...”
“No, no!” declared Bellward. “I’m far too upset. You seem to think you
can turn me on and off like you do the gas!”
“Well, as you like,” said Strangwise, “but the sooner we clear up this
thing the better. I’m going to see if our clever young friend has taken
refuge in the servants’ quarters upstairs. He’s not on this floor,
that’s certain!”
Desmond drew back in terror. He heard the green baize door on the floor
below swing back as Strangwise went out to the back stairs and
Bellward’s heavy step ascended the main staircase. There was something
so horribly sinister in that firm, creaking tread as it mounted towards
him that for the moment he lost his head. He looked round wildly for a
place of concealment; but the corridor was bare. Facing him was the red
enamel door. Boldly he turned the handle and walked in, softly closing
the door behind him.
It was as though he had stepped into another world. The room in which
he found himself was a study in vivid red emphasized by black. Red and
black; these were the only colors in the room. The curtains, which were
of black silk, were drawn, though it was not yet dark outside, and from
the ceiling was suspended a lamp in the shape of a great scarlet bowl
which cast an eerie red light on one of the most bizarre apartments
that Desmond had ever seen.
It was a lacquer room in the Chinese style, popularized by the craze
for barbaric decoration introduced by Bakst and the Russian Ballet into
England. The walls were enameled the same brilliant glossy red as the
door and hung at intervals with panels of magnificent black and gold
lacquer work. The table which ran down the centre of the room was of
scarlet and gold lacquer like the fantastically designed chairs and the
rest of the furniture. The heavy carpet was black.
Desmond did not take in all these details at once; for his attention
was immediately directed to a high-backed armchair covered in black
satin which stood with its back to the door. He stared at this chair;
for, peeping out above the back, making a splash of deep golden brown
against the black sheen of the upholstery, was a mass of curls...
Barbara Mackwayte’s hair.
As he advanced towards the girl, she moaned in a high, whimpering
voice:
“No, no, not again! Let me sleep! Please, please, leave me alone!”
Desmond sprang to her side.
“Barbara!” he cried and never noticed that he called her by her
Christian name.
Barbara Mackwayte sat in the big black armchair, facing the
black-curtained window. Her face was pale and drawn, and there were
black circles under her eyes. There was a listless yet highly-strung
look about her that you see in people who habitually take drugs.
She heeded not the sound of his voice. It was as though he had not
spoken. She only continued to moan and mutter, moving her body about
uneasily as a child does when its sleep is disturbed by nightmares.
Then, to his inexpressible horror, Desmond saw that her feet were bound
with straps to the legs of the chair. Her arms were similarly tethered
to the arms of the chair, but her hands had been left free.
“Barbara!” said Desmond softly, “you know me! I’m Desmond Okewood! I’ve
come to take you home!”
The word “home” seemed to catch the girl’s attention; for now she
turned her head and looked at the young man. The expression in her
eyes, wide and staring, was horrible; for it was the look of a tortured
animal.
Desmond was bending to unbind the straps that fastened Barbara’s arms
when he heard a step outside the door. The curtains in front of the
window were just beside him. They were long and reached to the floor.
Without a second’s hesitation he slipped behind them and found himself
in the recess of a shallow bow window.
The bow window was in three parts and the central part was open wide at
the bottom. It gave on a little balcony which was in reality the roof
of a bow window of one of the rooms on the floor below. Desmond
promptly scrambled out of the window and letting himself drop on to the
balcony crouched down below the sill.
A door opened in the room he had just left. He heard steps moving about
and cupboards opened and shut. Then, there was the sound of curtains
being drawn back and a voice said just above him:
“He’s not here! I tell you the fellow’s not in the house! Now perhaps
you’ll believe me!”
The balcony was fairly deep and it was growing dusk; but Desmond could
scarcely hope to escape detection if Bellward, for he had recognized
his voice, should think of leaning out of the window and looking down
upon the balcony. With his coat collar turned up to hide the
treacherous white of his linen, Desmond pressed himself as close as
possible against the side of the house and waited for the joyful cry
that would proclaim that he had been discovered. There was no possible
means of escape; for the balcony stood at an angle of the house with no
windows or water-pipes anywhere within reach, to give him a foothold,
looking out on an inhospitable and gloomy area.
Whether Bellward, who appeared bent only on getting away from the house
without delay, examined the balcony or not, Desmond did not know; but
after the agony of suspense had endured for what seemed to him an hour,
he heard Strangwise say:
“It’s no good, Bellward! I’m not satisfied! And until I _am_ satisfied
that Okewood is not here, I don’t leave this house. And that’s that!”
Bellward swore savagely.
“We’ve searched the garden and not found him: we’ve ransacked the house
from top to bottom without result. The fellow’s not here; but by God,
he’ll be here presently with a bunch of police, and then it’ll be too
late! For the last time, Strangwise, will you clear out?”
There was a moment’s pause. Then Desmond heard Strangwise’s clear, calm
voice.
“There’s a balcony there... below the window, I mean.”
“I’ve looked,” replied Bellward, “and he’s not there. You can see for
yourself!”
The moment of discovery had arrived. To Desmond the strain seemed
unbearable and to alleviate it, he began to count, as one counts to woo
sleep. One! two! three! four! He heard a grating noise as the window
was pushed further up. Five! six! seven! eight!
“Strange!”
Strangwise muttered the word just above Desmond’s head. Then, to his
inexpressible relief, he heard the other add:
“He’s not there!”
And Desmond realized that the depth of the balcony had saved him. Short
of getting out of the window, as he had done, the others could not see
him.
The two men returned to the room and silence fell once more. Outside on
the damp balcony in the growing darkness Desmond was fighting down the
impulse to rush in and stake all in one desperate attempt to rescue the
girl from her persecutors. But he was learning caution; and he knew he
must bide his time.
Some five minutes elapsed during which Desmond could detect no definite
sound from the red lacquer room except the occasional low murmur of
voices. Then, suddenly, there came a high, quavering cry from the girl.
Desmond raised himself quickly erect, his ear turned so as to catch
every sound from the room. The girl wailed again, a plaintive, tortured
cry that seemed to issue forth unwillingly from her.
“My God!” said Desmond to himself, “I can’t stand this!”
His head was level with the sill of the window which was fortunately
broad. Getting a good grip on the rough cement with his hands, he
hoisted himself up on to the sill, by the sheer force of his arms
alone, sat poised there for an instant, then very lightly and without
any noise, clambered through the window and into the room. Even as he
did so, the girl cried out again.
“I can’t! I can’t!” she wailed.
Every nerve in Desmond’s body was tingling with rage. The blood was
hotly throbbing against his temples and he was literally quivering all
over with fury. But he held himself in check. This time he must not
fail. Both those men were armed, he knew. What chance could he, unarmed
as he was, have against them? He must wait, wait, that they might not
escape their punishment.
Steadying the black silk curtains with his hands, he looked through the
narrow chink where the two panels met. And this was what he saw.
Barbara Mackwayte was still in the chair; but they had unfastened her
arms though her feet were still bound. She had half-risen from her
seat. Her body was thrust forward in a strained, unnatural attitude;
her eyes were wide open and staring; and there was a little foam on her
lips. There was something hideously deformed, horribly unlife-like
about her. Though her eyes were open, her look was the look of the
blind; and, like the blind, she held her head a little on one side as
though eager not to miss the slightest sound.
Bellward stood beside her, his face turned in profile to Desmond. His
eyes were dilated and the sweat stood out in great beads on his
forehead and trickled in broad lanes of moisture down his heavy cheeks.
He was half-facing the girl and every time he bent towards her, she
tugged and strained at her bonds as though to follow him.
“You say he has been here. Where is he? Where is he? You shall tell me
where he is.”
Bellward was speaking in a strange, vibrating voice. Every question
appeared to be a tremendous nervous effort. Desmond, who was keenly
sensitive to matters psychic, could almost feel the magnetic power
radiating from the man. In the weird red light of the room, he could
see the veins standing out like whipcords on the back of Bellward’s
hands.
“Tell me where he is? I command you!”
The girl wailed out again in agony and writhed in her bonds. Her voice
rose to a high, gurgling scream.
“There!” she cried, pointing with eyes staring, lips parted, straight
at the curtains behind which Desmond stood.