THE MIDNIGHT VISIT
MICHAEL BRIXAN had had sent down to him from town a heavy suit-case,
which contained precious little clothing. He was busy with its contents
for half an hour, when the boots of the hotel announced the arrival of
the motor-cycle that had been hired for him.
With a canvas bag strapped to his back, he mounted the machine, and was
soon clear of the town, swerving through the twisting lanes of Sussex
until he arrived at the Dower House, behind which he concealed his
machine.
It was eleven o’clock when he crossed the fields to the postern gate, on
the alert all the time for the soft-footed Bhag. The postern was closed
and locked—a contingency for which he was prepared. Unstrapping his
bag, he took therefrom a bundle of rods, and screwed three together. To
the top he fastened a big, blunt hook, and, replacing the remainder of
the rods, he lifted the hook till it rested on the top of the high wall,
tested its stability, and in a few seconds had climbed his “ladder” and
had jumped to the other side.
He followed the path that he had taken before, keeping close to the
bushes, and all the time watching left and right for Penne’s monstrous
servant. As he came to the end of the hedge, the hall door opened and
two men came out. One was Penne, and for a moment he did not recognize
the tall man by his side, until he heard his voice. Mr. Sampson
Longvale!
“I think she will be all right. The wounds are very peculiar. It looks
almost as if she had been scratched by some huge claw,” said Longvale.
“I hope I have been of assistance, Sir Gregory, though, as I told you,
it is nearly fifty years since I engaged in medical work.”
So old Longvale had been a doctor! Somehow this news did not surprise
Michael. There was something in the old man’s benevolence of countenance
and easy manner which would have suggested a training in that
profession, to one less analytical than Michael Brixan.
“My car will take you down,” he heard Sir Gregory say.
“No, no, thank you; I will walk. It is not very far. Good night, Sir
Gregory.”
The baronet growled a good night and went back into the dimly-lit hall,
and Michael heard the rattle of chains as the door was fastened.
There was no time to be lost. Almost before Mr. Sampson Longvale had
disappeared into the darkness, Michael had opened his canvas bag and had
screwed on three more links to his ladder. From each rod projected a
short, light, steel bracket. It was the type of hook-ladder that firemen
use, and Michael had employed this method of gaining entrance to a
forbidden house many times in his chequered career.
He judged the distance accurately, for when he lifted the rod and
dropped the hook upon the sill of the little window, the ladder hung
only a few inches short of the ground. With a tug to test the hook, he
went up hand over hand, and in a few seconds was prying at the window
sash. It needed little opening, for the catch was of elementary
simplicity, and in another instant he was standing on the step of a dark
and narrow stairway.
He had provided himself with an electric torch, and he flashed a beam up
and down. Below, he saw a small door which apparently led into the hall,
and, by an effort of memory, he remembered that in the corner of the
hall he had seen a curtain hanging, without attaching any importance to
the fact. Going down, he tried the door and found it locked. Putting
down his lantern, he took out a leather case of tools and began to
manipulate the lock. In an incredibly short space of time the key
turned. When he had assured himself that the door would open, he was
satisfied. For the moment his work lay upstairs, and he climbed the
steps again, coming to a narrow landing, but no door.
A second, a third and a fourth flight brought him, as near as he could
guess, to the top of the tower, and here he found a narrow exit.
Listening, after a while he heard somebody moving about the room, and by
the sound they made, he supposed they wore slippers. Presently a door
closed with a thud, and he tried the handle of the wicket. It was
unlocked, and he opened it gently a fraction of an inch at a time, until
he secured a view of the greater part of the chamber.
It was a small, lofty room, unfurnished with the exception of a low bed
in one corner, on which a woman lay. Her back was toward him,
fortunately; but the black hair and the ivory yellow of the bare arm
that lay on the coverlet told him that she was not European.
Presently she turned and he saw her face, recognizing her immediately as
the woman whose face he had seen in the picture. She was pretty in her
wild way, and young. Her eyes were closed, and presently she began
crying softly in her sleep.
Michael was half-way in the room when he saw the handle of the other
door turn, and, quick as a flash, stepped back into the darkness of the
landing.
It was Bhag, in his old blue overall, a tray of food in his great hands.
He reached out his foot and pulled the table toward him, placing the
viands by the side of the bed. The girl opened her eyes and sank back
with a little cry of disgust; and Bhag, who was evidently used to these
demonstrations of her loathing, shuffled out of the room.
Again Michael pushed the door and crossed the room, unnoticed by the
girl, looking out into the passage—not six feet away from him, Bhag was
squatting, glaring in his direction.
Michael closed the door quickly and flew back to the secret staircase,
pulling the door behind him. He felt for a key, but there was none, and,
without wasting another second, he ran down the stairs. The one thing he
wished to avoid was an encounter which would betray his presence in the
house.
He made no attempt to get out of the window, but continued his way to
the foot of the stairs, and passed through into the hall. This time he
was able to close the door, for there were two large bolts at the top
and the bottom. Pulling aside the curtain, he stepped gingerly into the
hall. For a while he waited, and presently heard the shuffle of feet on
the stairs and a sniff beneath the door.
His first act was to ensure his retreat. Noiselessly he drew the bolts
from the front door, slipped off the chain and turned the key. Then, as
noiselessly, he made his way along the corridor toward Sir Gregory’s
room.
The danger was that one of the native servants would see him, but this
he must risk. He had observed on each of his previous visits that, short
of the library, a door opened into what he knew must be an ante-room of
some kind. It was unlocked and he stepped into complete darkness.
Groping along the wall, he found a row of switches, and pulled down the
first. This lit two wall-brackets, sufficient to give him a general view
of the apartment.
It was a small drawing-room, apparently unused, for the furniture was
sheeted with holland, and the fire-grate was empty. From here it was
possible to gain access to the library through a door near the window.
He switched off the light, locked the door on the inside, and tried the
shutters. These were fastened by iron bars and were not, as in the case
of the library, locked. He pulled them back, let the blind up, and
gingerly raised a window. His second line of retreat was now prepared,
and he could afford to take risks.
Kneeling down, he looked through the keyhole. The library was
illuminated, and somebody was talking. A woman! Turning the handle, he
opened the door the fraction of an inch, and had a view of the interior.
Gregory Penne was standing in his favourite attitude, with his back to
the fire, and before him was a tray of those refreshments without which
life was apparently insupportable. Seated on the low settee, drawn up at
one side of the fireplace, was Stella Mendoza. She was wearing a fur
coat, for the night was chilly, and about her neck was such a sparkle of
gems as Michael had never seen before on a woman.
Evidently the discussion was not a pleasant one, for there was a heavy
scowl on Gregory’s face, and Stella did not seem too pleased.
“I left you because I had to leave you,” growled the man, answering some
complaint she had made. “One of my servants is ill and I brought in the
doctor. And if I had stayed it would have been the same. It’s no good,
my girl,” he said harshly. “The goose doesn’t lay golden eggs more than
once—this goose doesn’t, at any rate. You were a fool to quarrel with
Knebworth.”
She said something which did not reach Michael’s ears.
“I dare say your own company would be fine,” said Penne sarcastically.
“It would be fine for me, who footed the bill, and finer for you, who
spent the money! No! Stella, that cat doesn’t jump. I’ve been very good
to you, and you’ve no right to expect me to bankrupt myself to humour
your whims.”
“It’s not a whim,” she said vehemently, “it’s a necessity. You don’t
want to see me going round the studios taking any kind of job I can get,
do you, Gregory?” she pleaded.
“I don’t want to see you work at all, and there’s no reason why you
should. You’ve enough to live on. Anyway, you’ve got nothing against
Knebworth. If it hadn’t been for him, you wouldn’t have met me, and if
you hadn’t met me, you’d have been poorer by thousands. You want a
change.”
There was a silence. Her head was drooped, and Michael could not see the
girl’s face, but when she spoke, there was that note of viciousness in
her voice which told him her state of mind.
“You want a change too, perhaps! I could tell things about you that
wouldn’t look good in print, and you’d have a change too! Get that in
your mind, Gregory Penne! I’m not a fool—I’ve seen things and heard
things, and I can put two and two together. You think I want a change,
do you—I do! I want friends who aren’t murderers——”
He sprang at her, his big hand covering her mouth.
“You little devil!” he hissed, and at that instant somebody must have
knocked, for he turned to the door and said something in the native
dialect.
The answer was inaudible to Mike.
“Listen.” Gregory was speaking to the girl in a calmer tone. “Foss is
waiting to see me, and I’ll discuss this little matter with you
afterwards.”
He released her, and, going to his desk, touched the spring that
operated the mechanism of the secret door that led to Bhag’s quarters.
“Go in there and wait,” he said. “I’ll not keep you longer than five
minutes.”
She looked suspiciously at the door which had suddenly opened in the
panelling.
“No,” she said, “I’ll go home. To-morrow will do. I’m sorry I got rough,
Gregory, but you madden me sometimes.”
“Go in there!”
He pointed to the den, his face working.
“I’ll not!” Her face was white. “You beast, don’t you think I know? That
is Bhag’s den! Oh, you beast!”
His face was horrible to see. It was as though all the foulness in his
mind found expression in the demoniacal grimace.
Breathless, terrified, the girl stared at him, shrinking back against
the wall. Presently Gregory mastered himself.
“Then go into the little drawing-room,” he said huskily.
Mike had time to switch out the lights and flatten himself against the
wall, when the door of the room was flung open and the girl thrust in.
“It is dark!” she wailed.
“You’ll find the switches!”
The door banged.
Michael Brixan was in a dilemma. He could see her figure groping along
the wall, and stealthily he moved to avoid her. In doing so he stumbled
over a stool.
“Who’s there?” she screamed. “Gregory! Don’t let him touch me, Gregory!”
Again the piercing scream.
Mike leapt past her and through the open window, and, the sound of her
shrill agony in his ears, fled along the hedge. Swift as he was,
something sped more quickly in pursuit, a great, twittering something
that ran bent double on hands and feet. The detective heard and guessed.
From what secret hiding-place Bhag had appeared, whether he was in the
grounds at the moment Mike jumped, he had no time even to guess. He felt
a curious lightness of pocket at that moment and thrust in his hand. His
pistol was gone. It must have fallen when he jumped.
He could hear the pad of feet behind him as he darted at a tangent
across the field, blundering over the cabbage rows, slipping in furrows,
the great beast growing closer and closer with every check. Ahead of him
the postern. But it was locked, and, even if it had not been, the wall
would have proved no obstacle to the ape. The barrier of the wall held
Michael. Breathless, turning to face his pursuer, in the darkness he saw
the green eyes shining like two evil stars.