IVOR FINDS SOMETHING IN THE DARK
There was a strong smell of paraffin oil in the room; and from somewhere
at the far end came a faint tap, tapping sound, which might be the light
knocking of a window-blind or the rap of a signalling finger.
If I could steer my way to the window and pull back the drawn curtains I
might be able to let in light enough to find matches on mantelpiece or
table. Then, what good luck if I should discover the case containing the
treaty and go off with it before "J.M." came back! It was not his, and
he was a thief: therefore, I should be doing him no wrong and Maxine de
Renzie much good by taking it, if he had left it behind, not too well
hidden when he went out.
Guided in the darkness by a slight breeze which still came through the
window, though the door was now shut, I shuffled across the uncarpeted
floor, groping with hands held out before me as I moved.
In a moment I brushed against a table, then struck my shin on something
which proved to be the leg of a chair lying over-turned on the floor. I
pushed it out of the way, but had gone on no more than three or four
steps when I caught my foot in a rug which had got twisted in a heap
round the fallen chair. I disentangled myself from its coils, only to
slip and almost lose my balance by stepping into some spilled liquid
which lay thick and greasy on the bare boards.
The warm hopefulness which I had brought into this dark, silent room was
chilled and dying now.
"I'm afraid there's been a struggle here," I thought. And if there had
been a struggle--what of the treaty?
There seemed to be a good deal of the spilled liquid, for as I felt my
way along, more anxious than ever for light, the floor was still wet and
slippery; and then, in the midst of the puddle, I stumbled over a thing
that was heavy and soft to the touch of my foot.
A queer tingling, like the sting of a thousand tiny electric needles
prickled through my veins, for even before I stooped and laid my hand on
that barrier which was so heavy and yet so soft as it stopped my path, I
knew what it would prove to be.
It was as if I could see through the dark, to what it hid. But though
there was no surprise left, there was a shock of horror as my fingers
touched an arm, a throat, an upturned face. And my fingers were wet, as
I knew my boots must be. And I knew, too, with what they were wet.
I'm ashamed to say that, after the first shock of the discovery, my
impulse was to get away, and out of the whole business, in which, for
reasons which concerned others even more than myself, it would be
unpleasant to be involved, just at this time especially. I could go
downstairs now, past the sleeping concierge, and with luck no one need
ever know that I had been in this dark room of death.
But as quickly as the impulse came, it went. I must stop here and search
for the treaty, no matter what happened, until I had found it or made
sure it was not to be found; I must not think of escape. If there were
matches in the room, well and good; if not, I must go elsewhere for
them, and come back. It was a grim task, but it had to be done.
Somehow, I got to the mantelpiece; and there luckily, among a litter of
pipes and bottles and miscellaneous rubbish, I did lay my hand on a
broken cup containing a few matches. I struck one, which showed me on
the mantel an end of a candle standing up in a bed of its own grease. I
lighted it, and not until the flame was burning brightly did I look
round.
There was but a faint illumination, yet it was enough to give me the
secret of the room. I might have seen all at a glance as I came in,
before the light of my last match was blown out by the wind, had not the
door as I opened it formed a screen between me and the dead man on the
floor.
He lay in the midst of the wildest confusion. In falling, he had dragged
with him the cover of a table, and a glass lamp which was smashed in
pieces, the spilled oil mingling with the stream of his blood. A chair
had been overturned, and a broken plate and tumbler with the tray that
had held them were half hidden in the folds of a disordered rug.
But this was not all. The struggle for life did not account for the
condition of other parts of the room. Papers were scattered over the
floor: the drawers of an old escritoire had been jerked out of place and
their contents strewn far and near. The doors of a wardrobe were open,
and a few shabby coats and pairs of trousers thrown about, with the
pockets wrong side out or torn in rags. A chest of drawers had been
ransacked, and a narrow, hospital bed stripped of sheets and blankets,
the stuffing of the mattress pulled into small pieces. The room looked
as if a whirlwind had swept through it, and as I forced myself to go
near the body I saw that it had not been left in peace by the murderer.
The blood-stained coat was open, the pockets of the garments turned out,
like those in the wardrobe, and all the clothing disarranged, evidently
by hands which searched for something with frenzied haste and merciless
determination.
The cunning forethought of the wretched man had availed him nothing. I
could imagine how joyously he had arrived at this house, believing that
he had outwitted the enemy. I pictured his disappointment on not finding
the friend who could have helped and supported him. I saw how he had
planned to defend himself in case of siege, by locking and bolting the
door (both lock and bolt were broken); I fancied him driven by hunger to
search his friend's quarters for food, and fearfully beginning a supper
in the midst of which he had probably been interrupted. Almost, I could
feel the horror with which he must have trembled when steps came along
the corridor, when the door was tried and finally broken in by force
without any cry of his being heard. I guessed how he had rushed to the
window, opened it, only to stare down at the depths below and return
desperately, to stand at bay; to protest to the avengers that he had not
the jewels; that he had been deceived; that he was innocent of any
intention to defraud them; that he would explain all, make anything
right if only they would give him time.
But they had not given him time. They had punished him for robbing them
of the diamonds by robbing him of his life. They had made him pay with
the extreme penalty for his treachery; and yet in the flickering
candle-light the stricken face, blood-spattered though it was, seemed to
leer slyly, as if in the knowledge that they had been cheated in the
end.
The confusion of the room promised badly for my hopes, nevertheless
there was a chance that the murderers, intent only on finding the
diamonds or some letters relating to their disposal, might, if they
found the treaty, have hastily flung it aside, as a thing of no value.
Though the corridors of the house were lit by gas, this room had none,
and the lamp being broken, I had to depend upon the bit of candle which
might fail while I still had need of it. I separated it carefully from
its bed of grease on the mantel, and as I did so the wavering light
touched my hand and shirt cuff. Both were stained red, and I turned
slightly sick at the sight. There was blood on my brown boots, too, and
the grey tweed clothes which I had not had time to change since arriving
in Paris.
I told myself that I must do my best to wash away these tell-tale stains
before leaving the room; but first I would look for the treaty.
I began my search by stirring up the mass of scattered papers on the
floor, and in spite of the horror which gripped me by the throat, I
cried "hurrah!" when, half hidden by the twisted rug, I saw the missing
letter-case. It was lying spread open, back uppermost, and there came an
instant of despair when I pounced on it only to find it empty. But there
was the treaty on the floor underneath; and lucky it was that the
searchers had thrown it out, for there were gouts of blood on the
letter-case, while the treaty was clean and unspotted.
With a sense of unutterable relief which almost made up for everything
endured and still to be endured, I slipped the document back into the
pocket from which it had been stolen.
At that moment a board creaked in the corridor, and then came a step
outside the door.
My blood rushed up to my head. But it was not of myself I thought; it
was of the treaty. If I were to be caught here, alone with the dead man,
my hands and clothing stained with his blood, I should be arrested. The
treaty must not be found on me. Yet I must hide it, save it. I made a
dash for the window, and once outside, standing on the narrow balcony, I
threw the candle-end into the room, aiming for the fire-place. Faint
starlight, sifting through heavy clouds, showed me a row of small
flower-pots standing in a wooden box. Hastily I wrapped the treaty in a
towel which hung over the iron railing, lifted out two of the
flower-pots (in which the plants were dead and dry), laid the flat
parcel I had made in the bottom of the box, and replaced the pots to
cover and conceal it. Then I walked back into the room again. A hand,
fumbling at the handle of the door, pushed it open with a faint creaking
of the hinges. Then the light of a dark lantern flashed.
DIANA FORREST'S PART