DOT AND DASH
For a long time after the retreating footsteps of Strangwise and
Bellward had died away, Desmond sat listless, preoccupied with his
thoughts. They were somber enough. The sinister atmosphere of the
house, weighing upon him, seemed to deepen his depression.
About his own position he was not concerned at all. This is not an
example of unselfishness it is simply an instance of the force of
discipline which trains a man to reckon the cause as everything and
himself as naught. And Desmond was haunted by the awful conviction that
he had at length reached the end of his tether and that nothing could
now redeem the ignominious failure he had made of his mission.
He had sacrificed Barbara Mackwayte; he had sacrificed Nur-el-Din; he
had not even been clever enough to save his own skin. And Strangwise,
spy and murderer, had escaped and was now free to reorganize his band
after he had put Barbara and Desmond out of the way.
The thought was so unbearable that it stung Desmond into action.
Strangwise should not get the better of him, he resolved, and he had
yet this brief interval of being alone in which he might devise some
scheme to rescue Barbara and secure the arrest of Strangwise and his
accomplices. But how?
He raised his head and looked round the room. The curtains had not been
drawn and enough light came into the room from the outside to enable
him to distinguish the outlines of the furniture. It was a bedroom,
furnished in rather a massive style, with some kind of thick, soft
carpet into which the feet sank.
Desmond tested his bonds. He was very skillfully tied up. He fancied
that with a little manipulation he might contrive to loosen the rope
round his right arm, for one of the knots had caught in the folds of
his coat. The thongs round his left arm and two legs were, however, so
tight that he thought he had but little chance of ridding himself of
them, even should he get his right arm free; for the knots were tied at
the back under the seat of the chair in such a way that he could not
reach them.
He, therefore, resigned himself to conducting operations in the highly
ridiculous posture in which he found himself, that is to say, with a
large arm-chair attached to him, rather like a snail with its house on
its back. After a certain amount of maneuvering he discovered that, by
means of a kind of slow, lumbering crawl, he was able to move across
the ground. It might have proved a noisy business on a parquet floor;
but Desmond moved only a foot or two at a time and the pile carpet
deadened the sound.
They had deposited him in his chair in the centre of the room near the
big brass bedstead. After ten minutes’ painful crawling he had reached
the toilet table which stood in front of the window with a couple of
electric candles on either side of the mirror. He moved the toilet
table to one side, then bumped steadily across the carpet until he had
reached the window. And then he gave a little gasp of surprise.
He found himself looking straight at the window of his own bedroom at
Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe’s. There was no mistaking it. The electric light
was burning and the curtains had not yet been drawn. He could see the
black and pink eiderdown on his bed and the black lining of the chintz
curtains. Then he remembered the slope of the hill. He must be in the
room from which he had seen Bellward looking out.
The sight of the natty bedroom across the way moved Desmond strangely.
It seemed to bring home to him for the first time the extraordinary
position in which he found himself, a prisoner in a perfectly
respectable suburban house in a perfectly respectable quarter of
London, in imminent danger of a violent death.
He wouldn’t give in without a struggle. Safety stared him in the face,
separated only by a hundred yards of grass and shrub and wall. He
instinctively gripped the arms of the chair to raise himself to get a
better view from the window, forgetting he was bound. The ropes cut his
arms cruelly and brought him back to earth.
He tested again the thongs fastening his right arm. Yes! they were
undoubtedly looser than the others. He pulled and tugged and writhed
and strained. Once in his struggles he crashed into the toilet table
and all but upset one of the electric candles which slid to the table’s
very brink and was saved, as by a miracle, from falling to the floor.
He resumed his efforts, but with less violence. It was in vain. Though
the ropes about his right arm were fairly loose, the wrist was solidly
fastened to the chair, and do what he would, he could not wrest it
free. He clawed desperately with his fingers and thumb, but all in
vain.
In the midst of his struggles he was arrested by the sound of
whistling. Somebody in the distance outside was whistling, clearly and
musically, a quaint, jingling sort of jig that struck familiarly on
Desmond’s ear. Somehow it reminded him of the front. It brought with it
dim memory of the awakening to the early morning chill of a Nissen hut,
the smell of damp earth, the whirr of aircraft soaring through the
morning sky, the squeak of flutes, the roll of drums... why, it was the
Grand Reveillé, that ancient military air which every soldier knows.
He stopped struggling and peered cautiously out into the dusk. The time
for darkening the windows must be at hand, he thought, for in most of
the houses the blinds were already drawn. Here and there, however, an
oblong of yellow light showed up against the dark mass of the houses on
the upper slopes of the hill. The curtains of his bedroom at Mrs.
Viljohn-Smythe’s were not yet drawn and the light still burned brightly
above the bed.
The whistling continued with occasional interruptions as though the
whistler were about some work or other. And then suddenly “Buzzer”
Barling, holding something in one hand and rubbing violently with the
other, stepped into the patch of light between the window and the bed
in Desmond’s bedroom.
Desmond’s heart leaped within him. Here was assistance close at hand.
Mechanically he sought to raise his hand to open the window, but an
agonising twinge reminded him of his thongs. He swiftly reviewed in his
mind the means of attracting the attention of the soldier opposite.
Whatever he was going to do, he must do quickly; for the fact that
people were beginning to darken their windows showed that it must be
close on half-past six, and about seven o’clock, Barling, after putting
out Desmond’s things, was accustomed to go out for the evening.
Should he shout? Should he try and break the window? Desmond rejected
both these suggestions. While it was doubtful whether Barling would
hear the noise or, if he heard it, connect it with Desmond, it was
certain that Strangwise and Bellward would do both and be upon Desmond
without a moment’s delay.
Then Desmond’s eye fell upon the electric candle which had slid to the
very edge of the table. It was mounted in a heavy brass candle-stick
and the switch was in the pedestal, jutting out over the edge of the
table in the position in which the candle now stood. The candle was
clear of the mirror and there was nothing between it and the window.
Desmond’s brain took all this in at a glance. That glance showed him
that Providence was being good to him.
A couple of jerks of the chair brought him alongside the table. Its
edge was practically level with the arms of the chair so that, by
getting into the right position, he was able to manipulate the switch
with his fingers. And then, thanking God and the Army Council for the
recent signalling course he had attended, he depressed the switch with
a quick, snapping movement and jerked it up again, sending out the dots
and dashes of the Morse code.
“B-A-R-L-I-N-G” he spelt out, slowly and laboriously, it is true; for
he was not an expert.
As he worked the switch, he looked across at the illuminated window of
the room in which Barling stood, with bent head, earnestly engaged upon
his polishing.
“B-a-r-l-i-n-g-ack-ack-ack-B-a-r-l-i-n-g-ack-ack-ack”
The light flickered up and down in long and short flashes. Still
“Buzzer” Barling trilled away at the “Grand Reveillé” nor raised his
eyes from his work.
Desmond varied the call:
“O-K-E-W-O-O-D T-O B-A-R-L-I-N-G” he flashed.
He repeated the call twice and was spelling it out for the third time
when Desmond saw the “Buzzer” raise his head.
The whistling broke off short.
“O-k-e-w-o-o-d t-o B-a-r-l-i-n-g” flickered the light.
The next moment the bedroom opposite was plunged in darkness.
Immediately afterwards the light began to flash with bewildering
rapidity. But Desmond recognized the call.
“I am ready to take your message,” it said.
“S-t-r-a-n-g-w-i-s-e h-a-s g-o-t m-e ack-ack-ack,” Desmond flashed
back, “f-e-t-c-h h-e-l-p a-t o-n-c-e ack-ack-ack: d-o-n-t r-e-p-l-y;
ack-ack-ack; s-e-n-d o-n-e d-o-t o-n-e d-a-s-h t-o s-h-o-w y-o-u
u-n-d-e-r-s-t-a-n-d ack-ack-ack!”
For he was afraid lest the light flashing from the house opposite might
attract the attention of the men downstairs.
He was very slow and he made many mistakes, so that it was with bated
breath that, after sending his message, he watched the window opposite
for the reply.
It came quickly. A short flash and a long one followed at once. After
that the room remained in darkness. With a sigh of relief Desmond, as
quietly as possible, manoeuvred the dressing-table back into place and
then jerked the chair across the carpet to the position where
Strangwise and Bellward had left him in the middle of the floor:
It was here that the two men found him, apparently asleep, when they
came up half-an-hour later. They carried him down to the red lacquer
room again.
“Well, Desmond!” said Strangwise, when their burden had been deposited
on the floor under the crimson lamp.
“Well, Maurice?” answered the other.
Strangwise noticed that Desmond had addressed him by his Christian name
for the first time since he had been in the house and his voice was
more friendly when he spoke again.
“I see you’re going to be sensible, old man,” he said. “Believe me,
it’s the only thing for you to do. You’re going to give up the Star of
Poland, aren’t you?”
“Oh, no, Maurice, I’m not,” replied Desmond in a frank, even voice.
“I’ve told you what I’m going to do. I’m going to hand you over to the
people at Pentonville to hang as a murderer. And I shouldn’t be at all
surprised if they didn’t run up old Bellward there alongside of you!”
Strangwise shook his head at him.
“You are very ill-advised to reject my offer, Desmond,” he said, “for
it simply means that I can do nothing more for you. Our friend Bellward
now assumes the direction of affairs. I don’t think you can realize
what you are letting yourself in for. You appear to have been dabbling
in Intelligence work. Perhaps it would interest you to hear something
about this, our latest German method for extracting accurate
information from reluctant or untruthful witnesses. Bellward, perhaps
you would enlighten him.”
Bellward smiled grimly.
“It is a blend,” he explained glibly, “of that extreme form of
cross-examination which the Americans call ‘the third degree’ and
hypnotic treatment. Many people, as you are doubtless aware, are less
responsive to hypnotic influence than others. An intensified course of
the third degree and lack of sleep renders such refractory natures
extraordinarily susceptible to mesmeric treatment. It prepares the
ground as it were!”
Bellward coughed and looked at Desmond over his tortoise-shell
spectacles which he had put on again.
“The method has had its best results when practised on women,” he
resumed. “Our people in Holland have found it very successful in the
case of female spies who come across the Belgian frontier. But some
women—Miss Barbara, for example—seem to have greater powers of
resistance than others. We had to employ a rather drastic form of the
third degree for her, didn’t we, Strangwise?”
He laughed waggishly.
“And you’ll be none too easy either,” he added.
“You beasts,” cried Desmond, “but just you wait, your turn will come!”
“Yours first, however,” chuckled Bellward. “I rather fancy you _will_
think us beasts by the time we have done with you, my young friend!”
Then he turned to Strangwise.
“Where’s Minna?” he asked.
“With the girl.”
“Is the girl sleeping?”
Strangwise nodded.
“She wanted it,” he replied, “no sleep for four days... I tell you it
takes some constitution to hold out against that!”
“Well,” said Bellward, rubbing the palms of his hands together, “as
we’re not likely to be disturbed, I think we’ll make a start!”
He advanced a pace to where Desmond sat trussed up, hand and foot, in
his chair. Bellward’s eyes were large and luminous, and as Desmond
glanced rather nervously at the face of the man approaching him, he was
struck by the compelling power they seemed to emit.
Desmond bent his head to avoid the insistent gaze. But in a couple of
quick strides Bellward was at his side and stooping down, had thrust
his face right into his victim’s. Bellward’s face was so close that
Desmond felt his warm breath on his cheek whilst those burning eyes
seemed to stab through his closed eyelids and steadily, stealthily,
draw his gaze.
Resolutely Desmond held his head, averted. All kinds of queer ideas
were racing through his brain, fragments of nursery rhymes, scenes from
his regimental life in India, memories of the front, which he had
deliberately summoned up to keep his attention distracted from those
merciless eyes, like twin search-lights pitilessly playing on his face.
Bellward could easily have taken Desmond by the chin and forced his
face up until his eyes came level with the other’s. But he offered no
violence of any kind. He remained in his stooping position, his face
thrust forward, so perfectly still that Desmond began to be tormented
by a desire to risk a rapid peep just to see what the mesmerist was
doing.
He put the temptation aside. He must keep his eyes shut, he told
himself. But the desire increased, intensified by the strong attraction
radiating from Bellward, and finally Desmond succumbed. He opened his
eyes to dart a quick glance at Bellward and found the other’s staring
eyes, with pupils distended, fixed on his. And Desmond felt his
resistance ebb. He tried to avert his gaze; but it was too late. That
basilisk glare held him fast.
With every faculty of his mind he fought against the influence which
was slowly, irresistibly, shackling his brain. He laughed, he shouted
defiance at Bellward and Strangwise, he sang snatches of songs. But
Bellward never moved a muscle. He seemed to be in a kind of cataleptic
trance, so rigid his body, so unswerving his stare.
The lights in the room seemed to be growing dim. Bellward’s eyeballs
gleamed redly in the dull crimson light flooding the room. Desmond felt
himself longing for some violent shock that would disturb the hideous
stillness of the house. His own voice was sounding dull and blunted in
his ears. What was the use of struggling further? He might as well give
up...
A loud crash, the sound of a door slamming, reechoed through the house.
The room shook. The noise brought Desmond back to his senses and at the
same time the chain binding him to Bellward snapped. For Bellward
started and raised his head and Strangwise sprang to the door. Then
Desmond heard the door burst open, there was the deafening report of a
pistol, followed by another, and Bellward crashed forward on his knees
with a sobbing grunt. As Desmond had his back to the door he could see
nothing of what was taking place, but some kind of violent struggle was
going on; for he heard the smash of glass as a piece of furniture was
upset.
Then suddenly the room seemed full of people. The thongs binding his
hands and feet fell to the ground. “Buzzer” Barling stood at his side.