A CRY FROM A TOWER
MICHAEL did not wait to see the early morning scenes shot. He had
decided upon a course of action, and as soon as he conveniently could,
he made his escape from the Dower House, and, crossing a field, reached
the road which led to Griff Towers. Possessing a good eye for country,
he had duly noted the field-path which ran along the boundary of Sir
Gregory Penne’s estate, and was, he guessed, a short cut to Griff; and
ten minutes’ walk brought him to the stile where the path joined the
road. He walked quickly, his eyes on the ground, looking for some trace
of the beast; but there had been no rain, and, unless he had wounded the
animal, there was little hope that he would pick up the track.
Presently he came to the high flint wall which marked the southern end
of the baronet’s grounds, and this he followed until he came to a
postern let in the wall, a door that appeared to have been recently in
use, for it was ajar, he noted with satisfaction.
Pushing it open, he found himself in a large field which evidently
served as kitchen garden for the house. There was nobody in sight. The
grey tower looked even more forbidding and ugly in the early morning
light. No smoke came from the chimneys; Griff was a house of the dead.
Nevertheless, he proceeded cautiously, and, instead of crossing the
field, moved back into the shadow of the wall until he reached the high
boxwood fence that ran at right angles and separated the kitchen garden
from that beautiful pleasaunce which Jack Knebworth had used the
previous morning as a background for his scenes.
And all the time he kept his eyes roving, expecting at any moment to see
the hideous figure of Bhag appear from the ground. At last he reached
the end of the hedge. He was now within a few paces of the gravelled
front, and less than half a dozen yards from the high, square grey tower
which gave the house its name.
From where he stood he could see the whole front of the house. The drawn
white blinds, the general lifelessness of Griff, might have convinced a
less sceptical man than Mike Brixan that his suspicions were unfounded.
He was hesitating as to whether he should go to the house or not, when
he heard a crash of glass, and looked up in time to see fragments
falling from the topmost room of the tower. The sun had not yet risen,
the earth was still wrapped in the illusory dawn light, and the hedge
made an admirable hiding-place.
Who was breaking windows at this hour of the morning? Surely not the
careful Bhag—so far he had reached in his speculations when the morning
air was rent by a shrill scream, of such fear that his flesh went cold.
It came from the upper room and ended abruptly, as though somebody had
put his hand over the mouth of the unfortunate from whom that cry of
terror had been wrung.
Hesitating no longer, Michael stepped from his place of concealment, ran
quickly across the gravel, and pulled at the bell before the great
entrance, which was immediately under the tower. He heard the clang of
the bell and looked quickly round, to make absolutely sure that Bhag or
some of the copper-coloured retainers of Griff Towers were not trailing
him.
A minute passed—two—and his hand was again raised to the iron
bell-pull, when he heard heavy feet in the corridor, a shuffle of
slippers on the tiled floor of the hall, and a gruff voice demanded:
“Who’s there?”
“Michael Brixan.”
There was a grunt, a rattle of chains, a snapping of locks, and the big
door opened a few inches.
Gregory Penne was wearing a pair of grey flannel trousers and a shirt,
the wristbands of which were unfastened. His malignant glare changed to
wonder at the sight of the detective.
“What do you want?” he demanded, and opened the door a few more inches.
“I want to see you,” said Michael.
“Usually call at daybreak?” growled the man as he closed the door on his
visitor.
Michael made no answer, but followed Gregory Penne to his room. The
library had evidently been occupied throughout the night. The windows
were shuttered, the electroliers were burning, and before the fire was a
table and two whisky bottles, one of which was empty.
“Have a drink?” said Penne mechanically, and poured himself out a
portion with an unsteady hand.
“Is your ape in?” asked Michael, refusing the preferred drink with a
gesture.
“What, Bhag? I suppose so. He goes and comes as he likes. Do you want to
see him?”
“Not particularly,” said Michael. “I’ve seen him once to-night.”
Penne was lighting the stub of a cigar from the fire as he spoke, and he
looked round quickly.
“You’ve seen him before? What do you mean?”
“I saw him at the Dower House, trying to get into Miss Leamington’s
room, and he was as near to being a dead orang-outang as he has ever
been.”
The man dropped the lighted spill on the hearth and stood up.
“Did you shoot him?” he asked.
“I shot at him.”
Gregory nodded.
“You shot at him,” he said softly. “That accounts for it. Why did you
shoot him? He’s perfectly harmless.”
“He didn’t strike me that way,” said Michael coolly. “He was trying to
pull Miss Leamington from her room.”
The man’s eyes opened.
“He got so far, did he? Well?”
There was a pause.
“You sent him to get the girl,” said Michael. “You also bribed Foss to
put a mark on the window so that Bhag should know where the girl was
sleeping.”
He paused, but the other made no reply.
“The cave man method is fairly beastly, even when the cave man does his
own kidnapping. When he sends an anthropoid ape to do his dirty work, it
passes into another category.”
The man’s eyes were invisible now; his face had grown a deeper hue.
“So that’s your line, is it?” he said. “I thought you were a pal.”
“I’m not responsible for your illusions,” said Michael. “Only I tell you
this”—he tapped the man’s chest with his finger—“if any harm comes to
Adele Leamington that is traceable to you or your infernal agent, I
shan’t be contented with shooting Mr. Bhag; I will come here and shoot
you! Do you understand? And now you can tell me, what is the meaning of
that scream I heard from your tower?”
“Who the hell do you imagine you’re cross-questioning?” spluttered
Penne, livid with fury. “You dirty, miserable little actor!”
Michael slipped a card from his pocket and put it in the man’s hand.
“You’ll find my title to question you legibly inscribed,” he said.
The man brought the card to the table-lamp and read it. The effect was
electrical. His big jaw dropped, and the hand that held the card
trembled so violently that it dropped to the floor.
“A detective?” he croaked. “A—a detective! What do you want here?”
“I heard somebody scream,” said Michael.
“One of the servants, maybe. We’ve got a Papuan woman here who’s ill: in
fact, she’s a little mad, and we’re moving her to-morrow. I’ll go and
see if you like?”
He looked toward Michael as though seeking permission. His whole
attitude was one of humility, and Michael required no more than the
sight of that pallid face and those chattering teeth to turn his
suspicion to certainty. Something was happening in this house that he
must get to the bottom of.
“May I go and see?” asked Penne.
Michael nodded. The stout man shuffled out of the room as though he were
in a hurry to be gone, and the lock clicked. Instantly Michael was at
the door, turned the handle and pulled. It was locked!
He looked round the room quickly, and, running to one of the windows,
flung back the curtain and pulled at the shutter. But this, too, was
locked. It was, to all intents and purposes, a door with a little
keyhole at the bottom. He was examining this when all the lights in the
room went out, the only illumination being a faint red glow from the
fire.