THE ABDUCTION
A DAY later. It was ten o’clock at night. Bertha was busy serving the
crowd of customers with drinks, when a lad came into the bar and asked
for Miss Summerhayes. Bertha spoke to him. He said a gentleman outside
wished to speak to her on a matter of great importance. Without
hesitation Bertha took her hat and went to the door. Here she was
accosted by a bushy-whiskered man, who demanded in a gruff voice if she
was Miss Summerhayes?
“Yes, to be sure. But what’s the matter?”
“A Mr. Norris sent me for you. He is very ill, and must see you at once.
Look, I have a cab; there is no time to lose, hurry in!”
Before she had time to think Bertha was in the vehicle, and it was
plunging off at a rapid rate. Bertha was full of questions, and her
interrogations came so quickly one after the other that for a time her
companion had an excuse for not replying.
“What is the matter with him? What has happened to dear old Pro? He
seemed all right yesterday. I never remember his being sick before.”
“It’s what they call a stroke,” the bushy-whiskered man replied gruffly.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” sighed Bertha hysterically. “Tell the man to
drive fast! But where is he going? This is Oxford Street—not the way to
Church Hill. I tell you he has made a mistake! Stop!” And Bertha tried
to lift the little door in the roof of the cab above her head.
“That’s all right,” said her companion; “we’ll be there in a few minutes.
The Professor was at a friend’s house up at Darlinghurst.”
For the time Bertha’s suspicions, now aroused, were silenced, but soon
the horse, who was travelling at great speed, arrived at Darlinghurst,
and without turning off the main road, continued his course to
Paddington.
“We have passed Darlinghurst. You are deceiving me! Stop the cab, or I
will cry out!”
“It’s all right, I tell you! Just keep quiet for a few minutes.”
But Bertha, fairly alarmed, and noting some passers-by at hand, stood up
in the cab and sang out—
“Help! Help! He—”
The third cry was stifled, for a silk muffler was placed round her head,
an odour, strange and unfamiliar, gradually stupefied her senses, and
caused her to sink unresistingly on the cushions of the vehicle. The
passers-by, alarmed by the cry, had paused a minute, but hearing nothing
more, and the cab speeding on, had resumed their walk.
A policeman standing apathetically at a street corner was startled into
activity by the furious approach of the hansom. It was clearly a case
for a summons, so he rushed into the roadway waving his arms, and cried—
“Stop! Stop!”
But the driver, instead of stopping, cleverly dodged him and his attempt
to seize the rein. The horse dashed by, and the enraged constable, who
was no mean sprinter, started in pursuit. At least he would find the
number.
But the light from the first lamp they passed lit up the back of the cab
only to show him the number was hidden.
On sped the cab, with no impediment, for the road at this time of night
was clear and deserted.
The policeman to his surprise was fast losing ground, for he was ignorant
that the black horse he was pursuing was within a head the winner of the
Sydney Cup. On sped the cab, now unpursued, through Paddington, past
Woollabra, past the Tea Gardens, and on, on into the darkness, where
lamps and houses were few, and scrub lined the road; on till the sound of
the ocean beating the high cliffs of Coogee and Bondi was audible in a
monotonous roar.
Inside the cab the man with bushy whiskers had removed the muffler, and
gazed with a look of gloating reverence on the pale and corpse-like
features of Bertha.
“Did I give her too much chloroform?” he said to himself, as he felt her
pulse. His look of anxiety passed away. There was still a feeble beat.
“Mine at last!” he cried, with an accent almost of worship, as he raised
the lifeless hand to his lips.
“Mine, now and for ever!”
* * * * *
When the night passed and the following morning without bringing news of
Bertha, surprise and astonishment began to trouble her friends and
employer at the Golden Bar. A message was sent to Professor Norris, who
was known to be her friend, but he knew nothing, and he returned with the
messenger, his mind filled with dread and dismay.
To Ruby and Florrie the mine of speculation and scandal thus opened up
was a veritable God-send. Every caller as he came in was posted up in
all the latest particulars. One of the first to be so informed was Alec
Booth, and it met him like a knock-down blow. He was, however, soon on
his mental feet again, and sifting, by examination, the list of crude
rumours with which the two barmaids inundated him, he learned
successively, first, that it was a lad (a well-known _habitué_ of the
side walk) who had called Bertha out. Next, having found the lad, he
heard from him that on the evening before a bushy-whiskered man had
driven up in a cab, and giving him a shilling, had told him to go in the
Golden Bar and tell a Miss Summerhayes that she was wanted. The lady had
come to the door as requested, and after some words with the
bushy-whiskered man, which the lad did not overhear, they both got in the
cab and drove rapidly away.
This was all the information Alec could gather. Neither a description of
the cab or cabman, nor the number of the same was to be had. A hansom in
a main Sydney thoroughfare is too common a sight to attract even passing
attention. Doubtless if Alec had been endowed with half the imagination
of a French detective he would have found his clue ample for the
prosecution of an immediate chase. But imagination was distinctly not
his _forte_. He could weave no theory, spin no web of conjecture; only
in a vague and ill-defined way he told himself that Bertha’s
disappearance was not natural, and probably not voluntary. She was
certainly not the sort of girl to elope at a minute’s notice, and even
Alec, slight student as he was of feminine human nature, felt that she
was above all not the girl to thus abandon her wardrobe.
Mixed with these feelings, that Bertha had met with foul play, were a
host of jealous doubts. Of her own accord she had stepped into this cab.
Why had she done so? Passion boiled up in the man, and he raged
impotently. At last his mind received an inspiration.
“Why not go to Soft Sam?”
He acted on the thought at once, and in a few minutes found himself in
the Domain at the old gentleman’s accustomed seat.
As Alec approached a group of children he heard the familiar voice
calling out amongst them—
“Now, knuckle down properly; don’t fudge.”
It was Sam teaching his pupils the mysteries of marbles, and Alec had to
wait some few minutes while a chubby youngster of six was inducted into
the mysteries of holding his blood-alley in the most scientific and
approved method.
“Well, my lad,” said Soft Sam at last, “what’s the trouble?”
Then Alec told him all he knew of Bertha’s disappearance; how eager he
was to seek her out, and how helpless he felt himself to do so.
“More trouble about that girl! Why can’t you leave them alone? Mark my
words, you’ll come a cropper over them before you are done. But there,
what’s the use of talking, the pairing season is death to common-sense.”
“But where has she gone, Sam? Where shall I find her?”
“That depends on who has done the job. He may be a tradesman, in which
case you may as well say ‘good-bye’; or only a botch of an amateur, in
which event you have a very good show. Advertise in this evening’s paper
for the cabman. Offer ten pounds reward and no questions asked, and you
will probably get an answer.”
“But suppose the man has been squared, is it likely he will give himself
for a sum like that?”
“That depends, as I said at first, who put up the job. Let us suppose it
was a mug’s plant. He would probably give the cabby a fiver for the
night’s work, and he is not the average cabman if he would not tell where
he drove to for a tenner, particularly if you undertake to ask nothing
else, and keep the cops out of the affair.”
Alec jumped at the suggestion at once, and he was just in time to get the
following notice in the second edition of the _Evening Times_—
TEN POUNDS REWARD.—If the cabman who drove a lady and gentleman from
the Golden Bar last evening will call on Alexander Booth, King
Street, he will receive the above. No foolish questions asked.
Alec went to his office and waited there impatiently for further
developments. About six o’clock a seedy-looking man sidled into the
office and asked for Mr. Booth. He was shown into the inner room, and
Alec, at the first glance, felt that something was coming.
“Are you the cove wot advertised?”
“That’s me,” said Alec. “Are you the cabman I want?”
“No, I’m not the bloke; but I think I could find him, or what you want to
know, if it was worth my while.”
“Do you know where he drove his cab last night?”
“Perhaps. Is that all you want to know?”
“That’s all. I’ll give a fiver down, and another fiver when you take me
to the house. And I want no other questions answered.”
“That’s the kind of talk! You can ante up the blunt, and we will start
right away.”
Eagerly Alec Booth counted out five notes to the man, and then together
they left the office, and jumping into a cab at the door, drove rapidly
towards the eastern suburb.
It was a long, silent drive. Alec, as he had promised, asked no
questions, and the man by his side volunteered no remark, except from
time to time to give the requisite notice to the driver.
Up Oxford Street, along the Old South Head Road, mile after mile, past
Paddington, Woollabra, the Tea Gardens, and then out in the scrub towards
the sea to the open stretch of desolate ground round about Bondi. The
houses were getting fewer, and at last at a signal the cab pulled up.
“Here we are, boss. That’s the crib there across the paddock,” and the
man pointed to a little cottage a few rods away, and standing back from
the road. “Now you can brass up.”
A doubt crossed Alec’s mind. It might be “a have.” But he resolved to
chance it. Ten pounds would neither make him nor break him; so paying
the guide, who quickly walked off, he bade the cabman to wait for him,
vaulted over the fence, and strode towards the house that had been
pointed out.
The place appeared to be unoccupied, yet there was not the usual notice,
“This House to Let,” in the window. The front gate was fastened, but was
easily stepped over. There were blinds to the windows of the front
rooms, but otherwise from an outside view they appeared to be empty.
Alec knocked at the door, a loud resounding knock.
There was no answer, no sound of movement within.
He tried the door. It was a common two-inch, fastened by a common lock.
Without thought of possible consequences, in case his information was
unreliable, Alec put his shoulder to the door, and putting forth his
great strength, was pleased to find the staple give way.
An empty passage, an empty house, quiet, desolate. Yet stay! One of the
four doors before him was fastened. He turned the handle. It was also
locked. Impatient, eagerly he shouted out—
“Bertha! are you there?”
* * * * *
The day following the abduction was one of nervous excitement to Huey
Gosper. He called in at the Golden Bar, and feigned a very natural
astonishment at the great piece of news Ruby had for him. He quite
supported her opinion that “The Squatter” must be at the bottom of it.
“The Squatter” was evidently “gone” on her; he was the possessor of
untold wealth. What more likely than that he had used the power of his
money to serve his own ends.
So spoke Ruby, and her tone was neither one of great commiseration for
Bertha, or great condemnation to her supposed abductor. Perhaps the
prospect of being carried off under these conditions did not appear so
terrible to her.
Huey wandered about the town restlessly. He took an unaccustomed number
of drinks, but they failed to act as a sedative. He answered a large
number of letters addressed to “The Tinman,” but if his correspondents
were pleased with the tips he sent on this occasion they were mortals
easily satisfied. One question was ever uppermost in his mind, “What
should he do next?” His plan, while yet in perspective, had appeared
simple enough. Disguised he would cage her, and later, in his own proper
person, he would come to her rescue with a tale of how he had discovered
that Alec Booth was her abductor. In this way he hoped to gain the
gratitude of Bertha, and the overthrow of his enemy.
He would go the following morning. It would look suspicious to go too
soon. This was his plan, and he had only to wait quietly; but quiet he
could not be.
How was Bertha getting on in that lonely house? Could he trust the
cabman? Was there some fault in his plan, some weak point in the tale he
meant to tell? So his mind dwelt and doubted. It was about six o’clock
in the evening that, carelessly turning over the evening paper, he came
to the following—
TEN POUNDS REWARD.—If the cabman who drove a lady and gentleman from
the Golden Bar last evening will call on Alexander Booth, King
Street, he will receive the above. No foolish questions asked.
“My God!” cried Huey, “I have no time to lose! That devil will be on my
track. Why did I trust the cabman? Why did I not follow Soft Sam’s
advice, always to work alone? Never mind, there is time yet. To-night
or to-morrow morning, what does it matter, I will take some tools and be
off.”
In five minutes a bundle already prepared was in his hand, and he was
seated in a cab, speeding rapidly to the eastern suburbs. He was nearly
at his destination when he signalled the driver to stop. Getting out he
bade him wait. Proceeding on foot he came to the solitary cottage.
Avoiding the front entrance, he walked along the side fence, climbed it,
and approached a window covered on the outside with venetian shutters.
“Are you there, Bertha?” he whispered, poking a stick through the
shutters and tapping the glass.
No answer.
“Are you there, Bertha?” he cried, still louder.
Still no response. With a cloud of anxiety on his face he hastily took a
short crowbar from his bundle, prized open the shutters, prized open the
window, and stepped in. With one glance he had eyed every nook and
corner of the room.
It was empty.
“Damnation!” cried Huey, as he passed through the open door into the
hall, where the front entrance itself was open to the world. “The bird
has flown, and the sooner I disappear the better.”
Three minutes later he was in the cab again, raging with disappointed
hopes, full of doubt as to what had happened. Had the cabman “split”?
Had Alec, with that cursed luck of his, foiled him again? Or had Bertha,
more ingenious than he had thought her, and despising the written warning
he had left, effected her own deliverance. Clearly he had failed, but
while he had life and liberty he would try again, and Bertha should be
his—yes, she should be his, or he would swing for her!
* * * * *
When Alec Booth called the name of Bertha at the inner door, he was
gladdened to hear the sound of feet on the floor, and a welcome voice
cry—“Alec! Is that you, Alec? Save me!”
With one strong drive from his shoulder the door burst in, and there,
standing with tear-stained face and imploring eyes, in the midst of a
daintily-furnished room, was Bertha Summerhayes.
“At last! Thank God!” exclaimed Alec. “How did you get here?”
She almost fell into his arms. Her eyes lighted up with joy, and her
bosom heaved with emotion.
“Oh, take me away from this! Take me away! It feels to me like a tomb!”
And Alec noted as he looked about that the room must have been in
semi-darkness before the opening of the door, for the lattice shutters of
the window were closed.
“Have you anything to take?” inquired Alec, as Bertha almost pushed him
forward in her eagerness to hasten away.
“No, there is nothing. Yet, stay a moment, there is that paper on the
table; take that, it may be of use; it may help to explain. But come, do
come! I shall faint if I stop in this place a minute longer!”
Alec picked up and placed in his pocket a written paper that lay on the
table, and, careless of further concern about the house, quickly left it
with Bertha on his arm, and it was not till they were seated side by side
in the cab that Miss Summerhayes seemed to draw her breath freely.
As the cab bowled along, they were too busy with mutual congratulations
to remark, on another road parallel to their own, a second cab hastening
in the direction from which they had just come. Without recognition
these two cabs passed each other not four hundred feet away, the riders
in each having their eyes closed to that which would have interested them
so much.
It was in disjointed fragments that Bertha related her experience, and,
pieced together, Alec found it came to this—
She was enticed into the cab by a bushy-whiskered man, who said he had
been sent to take her to Mr. Norris, who was seriously ill. The cab, she
remembered, came up Oxford Street, when she pointed out that they were
going in the wrong direction. The man then told her that Mr. Norris was
at a friend’s house at Darlinghurst, but very soon the cab passed that
place, and then she called out and wanted to stop the cab or summon
assistance. After that she could remember nothing till she came to her
senses, feeling very sick and faint, in the room where Alec had found
her.
Looking about in the half-darkened room she found a written paper on the
table, the same that Alec had in his pocket. Alec took it out and read
as follows—
“Miss Summerhayes is warned for her own safety to make no effort to
escape or noise of any kind, as it will only force those who watch her to
do again what was done in the cab. On these conditions no harm shall
happen to you.—A FRIEND.”
“Reading that made you keep quiet, I suppose,” said Alec.
“Yes,” said Bertha. “I did not want to be smothered again, and I was
terrified almost to death, sitting there alone all day, not knowing what
was to happen next. Perhaps they were going to murder me, or throw me
over the cliffs, for I could hear the noise of the surf. But noise in
the house I heard none, till you came and broke open the door. How did
you find me out?”
Then Alec gave his account, how he had gone to Soft Sam, and acting on
his advice, had advertised for the cabman, how a man had replied, and in
spite of his assertion to the contrary, most likely the cabman himself.
The rest Bertha knew.
“How can I ever thank you enough, Mr. Booth?” said Bertha, as she stepped
once more on the pavement fronting the Golden Bar. “How can I ever thank
you enough for your kindness and courage?”
“Give me this hand to keep and take care of,” replied Alec with a sudden
burst of emotional fervour, “and no scoundrel in the future shall dare to
touch you!”
Bertha did not answer him as she stepped lightly to the doorway; then,
half turning her head, she threw him one word as she disappeared.
“Perhaps!”