THE SHADOW ON THE WALL.
Jack needed no second bidding; he was only too anxious and eager to
follow the direction of Rigby's outstretched finger. He was by no
means lacking in the nerve and pluck which generally go to a young man
of fine physique and clean habit. But there was something about the
whole of this affair, a creeping suggestion of diabolical crime, such
as one only encounters in the wildest realms of fiction.
And yet it seemed to Jack that his reading of the daily press recalled
things just as vile in every-day life. With teeth clenched firmly,
with a stern resolution to do nothing very likely to precipitate what
might have been a terrible catastrophe, Jack looked into the room
before him. As the door was half open and the two friends were hidden
in the blackish shadow, it was possible to watch without the slightest
chance of being seen.
For an empty house, dusty and gloomy and deserted as it was, the room
in front of our two adventurers presented a striking contrast to the
rest of the place. There was no window, or at least, where the window
ought to have been, something in the way of an iron shutter stood, and
over this a great wealth of silken hangings was artistically arranged.
As to the rest of the apartment, the furniture was directly in keeping
with the abode of a millionaire. Jack did not fail to notice the rich
Persian carpet, the luxurious chairs and settees of the First Empire
period, the fine pictures on the walls. The walls, too, had been
recently decorated, so that there was not a single jarring note to mar
the harmonious whole. There were flowers, too, grouped in the corners
of the room and piled cunningly around the electrolier standing on the
centre table.
"Now, that is a strange thing," Jack whispered. "So far as I could
see, so far as I can see now, there is no sign whatever of the
electric lighting in any other part of the house. Do you suppose that
these people have taken this house in the ordinary way, or is it
possible that----"
"Not a bit of it," Rigby replied. "They're not the sort of people to
do anything as foolish as that. Nor would there be any occasion to go
to the expense. Depend upon it, they know all about the character of
the owner of this property, and that it is not in the least likely to
let unless put thoroughly in order."
"Then, what about the electric light?" Jack suggested. "That would
have to be put in by somebody. These people could not tap the main, or
anything of that kind."
"There's a much simpler way than that, my dear fellow. Dr. Adamson
lives next door, and I know perfectly well that he has electric light.
It does not require much technical knowledge to wire a house, and
anybody with a small amount of common sense could easily drill a small
hole through a partition and attach a wire to one of the main lines
next door. I think that explains the problem."
Jack had no further question to ask for the moment. His full attention
now was concentrated on the occupants of the room. There were three of
them altogether, two being dressed like superior mechanics, and were
evidently there for some purpose connected with machinery. The third
man, superior in every way to his companions, had his back turned to
the door, so that it was impossible to get a glimpse of his features.
He had in front of him an ingenious-looking arrangement, not unlike a
magic lantern or a contrivance for throwing cinematograph pictures on
a screen. At a sign from him, one of the workmen drew back the silken
draperies covering what ought to have been the window, and a white
sheet stood confessed.
"Give me the third slide by your left hand," the operator commanded.
"That will do. Now switch out the light."
There was a click and a jerk, and immediately the whole room was
plunged in darkness save for the fierce disc of blinding light that
flashed upon the screen. Almost immediately a dazzling disc was
transformed to the face of a man. Jack clutched at the arm of his
companion.
"By heaven! do you see that?" he whispered. "It is nothing more nor
less than the face of Nostalgo. Do you think this is merely a
development of some novel form of advertisement, or is it possible
that these fellows have hit upon some novel way of putting in
posters?"
But Rigby had nothing to say. He was too deeply interested in the
spectacle before him. It had occurred to him for the moment that there
might have been something in what Jack suggested. It was just possible
also that what he took to be a large sheet was no more than a wide
stretch of paper.
At any rate, there was no hurry. There would be plenty of time to
ascertain whether the supposed sheet on the wall was paper or not.
Rigby had made no reply to Jack's cogent question, but he seemed to be
quite as interested as his friend.
"Hang me if I know what to think of it," he said at length. "It seems
to me as if these fellows were trying to work out something quite new
in the way of lantern slides. Mind you, it is just possible that we
are mistaken altogether in our assumption that Anstruther is carrying
out some cunning rascality. These men may, after all, be no more or
less than honest workmen."
"I can't quite see that point," Jack replied. "Honest workmen do not,
as a rule, come in this furtive way to an empty house. Besides, look
at them."
"That is all very well," Rigby argued. "But supposing that you were
engaged upon some secret process which you did not want anybody to
know anything about. And, besides, Anstruther is quite a genius in his
way, and there is no reason why he should not be engaged upon
inventing some new process of lithography."
"In that case," Jack said, "is it not a strange coincidence that they
should be manufacturing these Nostalgo posters? I grant you that
Anstruther is absolutely a genius, but his talents always take a
sinister bent; in fact, I don't think the fellow could be honest if he
tried. Still, we have plenty of time to find out."
"Do you really think that is paper?" Rigby asked. "It looks to me like
it."
"It looks to me like it, too," Jack said; "but we shall have to
possess our souls in patience."
"Hang me if I don't go and see," he said. "No, I don't see that there
is any great danger unless they should happen to turn up the light
again, and I do not suppose they will do that until the experiment is
finished."
"For goodness' sake, do nothing rash," Jack implored. "From what we
have already seen, we have to do with a gang who would not hesitate to
cut our throats if it served their purpose."
The thing, after all, was not so hazardous as Jack had imagined. Just
for an instant, as if by accident, one of the shaded electrics on the
wall flashed out in a pin-point of diamond light.
"You clumsy fool!" growled the man behind the lantern. "What did you
do that for? You might have spoilt all my work by your blundering
folly."
The erring workman grunted out something in the way of an apology and
a promise that he would be more careful in the future. Here, then, was
Rigby's opportunity. He knew now that there was no likelihood of the
light being turned on again for some time to come. All he had to do,
therefore, was to creep cautiously, wriggling like a snake across the
floor, until he could touch the huge screen and ascertain whether it
were paper or cloth.
He took a penknife from his pocket and opened a small blade. So dense
was the darkness of the room by contrast with the vivid lane of light
thrown upon the screen that the journey was practically devoid of
peril, so long as no one touched the switch of the electrics.
Therefore Rigby crept along, his nerves braced to the highest tension
and an exhilarating sense of danger strong upon him. He could see now
that the white sheet extended from floor to ceiling, the edges of it
seeming black and firm like an iron plate in contrast with the
brilliant white centre.
He was close to it now, so close indeed that, with a cautious movement
of his arm, he could touch the sheet. A single prick with a sharp
point of his knife gave him all the information that he needed. It was
a sheet of paper surely enough. A moment later Rigby was standing by
Jack's side once more.
"Paper," he whispered. "Really, this adventure is likely to prove
prosaic after all. Don't you think we are rather making a mountain out
of a molehill? We know that Anstruther is a great rascal, but at the
same time he is an exceedingly clever man, and, as you know, inclined
to be secretive. Now, isn't it just possible that our friend has hit
upon some new process of photo-lithography, and that we are witnessing
an experiment to demonstrate the value of the new idea."
"I don't think so," Jack replied. "Indeed, since you have been away, I
have made something in the way of a discovery also. Mark well the
picture thrown upon the screen yonder. You know what it represents, of
course?"
"Well, naturally. I have seen the diabolical face of Nostalgo on too
many posters not to be absolutely familiar with his ugly mug. Depend
upon it, those fellows are printing the famous poster in some way
known to themselves. Maybe we shall see that self-same sheet on some
hoarding to-morrow."
"But that is not what I meant at all," Jack proceeded to explain. "If
you are as familiar with the poster as you say you are, you will
notice a considerable difference in this one. In the first place, the
face is a little more in profile, and surely you must notice the
difference in the hands."
"Right you are," Rigby replied. "In the present instance the hands are
half-extended, as if in the act of clutching something. Strange that I
had not noticed that before. What do you make it out to be?"
"Hush!" Jack whispered. "I think our ingenious friend behind the
lantern will explain that for himself."
The leading operator in the room gave a short curt sign and the
brilliant lights flashed up once more. The slide was also drawn from
the lantern, but the sinister features of the dark, repulsive face
upon the screen did not vanish as might have been expected. On the
contrary, the grim face frowned down as if it had been brushwork from
the pencil of some imaginative artist. One of the workmen approached
the sheet and dragged it to the floor. Then the three men in the room
bent over the poster and examined it critically.
"It seems to me that the hand is a little out of drawing," the leader
of the trio remarked critically. "Give me the paints--the white paint,
I mean."
The speaker took a brush heavily charged with some white pigment and
proceeded to touch up the hand. He cut this portion from the sheet and
placed it in the slide of the lantern. Then another large sheet of
paper was erected in front of the window, and the lights turned out
again. Almost immediately there appeared upon the disc the shadow of a
huge, bony hand uplifting a dagger in a menacing attitude. A grunt of
approval came from the man behind the lantern, and once more the
lights were turned up.
"There, what did I tell you?" Jack asked eagerly. "I am sure the
different attitudes of that man's hand are meant for signs."
"Indeed, it would seem so," Rigby was forced to admit. "We'd better
stay here and await developments."
For the next hour or so the mysterious process of printing the posters
continued. It was exactly as Jack's ingenious mind had forecast. In
every instance, although the dark and sinister features remained the
same, the attitude of the hand was different. It was a strange and
most important discovery that the two friends had made; but, instead
of making their task easier, the problem had become still more
intricate. Was all this part of some cunning device for attracting
public attention, something absolutely new in the way of
advertisement, or did it signify a deeper and more sinister purpose?
Jack recollected now how frequently Anstruther had alluded in his
hearing to the ramifications of secret societies. With his intimate
knowledge of criminality, and having every assistance from the police
always at his disposal, Anstruther's acquaintance with the seamy side
of life was extensive and peculiar. But was he now helping the police
as usual, or was he engaged himself upon some ingenious conspiracy for
the aggrandizement of himself and his satellites?
It was difficult to say, it was still more difficult to prove
anything, seeing that the work of printing was still proceeding in
silence. If these men would only speak, if they would only utter some
word which might give a clue to what they were doing, the spies would
have been more satisfied. Their only hope was to watch and wait on the
off-chance of a careless word.
They were listening so eagerly indeed that they almost failed to
notice the sound of a footstep which now echoed on the stairs. They
were so close to the door that any one reaching their landing from
below could hardly fail to make out the outline of their figures.
Rigby had barely time to drag his companion back into the velvety
darkness beyond before the newcomer was past them and had entered the
room.
"How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?" the newcomer cried.
"How are you getting on? Nobody interrupting you--seen nothing of the
police or anything of that kind?"
"No doubt as to who that is," Rigby whispered. "I should recognize
Anstruther's voice anywhere. I told you he was at the bottom of this
business."
Anstruther stood before them, tall and distinguished in his evening
dress, and there was no sign about him that he was doing anything more
than pursuing a quite normal occupation.
"Not at all a bad evening's work," he said. "Are we all here, or is
Carrington late again? Confound that fellow! I begin to wish we hadn't
taken him into the business at all. But I do not think he is at all
likely to play me false; it will be a bad day's work for him if he
does."
"Carrington, too," Jack muttered significantly; "that is your rich
banker friend, Dick. The plot thickens apace. It seems impossible for
anybody to come in contact with Anstruther and retain his
respectability."