_By_ Martin Swayne
_Royal Army Medical Corps_
Colonel Wedge was a quiet, genial bachelor. If there was anything that
seemed to distinguish him from the familiar type of retired officer, it
was his great breadth of shoulder. He was well over fifty, but still
vigorous and active. On the day after his arrival in Paris, whither he
had come on a week’s visit, he breakfasted at nine and spent the morning
in visiting some public places of interest. He lunched at a restaurant
near the Porte St. Martin, where he found himself in a typically
Parisian atmosphere, and after smoking a cigar began to stroll idly
along the streets. Chance directed his steps in a northerly direction,
and about three in the afternoon he found himself in the Montmartre
district.
He walked along in a casual manner, his hands clasped behind his back,
watching everything with infinite relish. While passing up a side street
his eye fell on a flamboyant advertisement outside a cinematograph show.
The Colonel was not averse to cinematograph shows, and it struck him
that here, perhaps, he might see something out of the ordinary. The
poster was certainly lurid. It represented a man being attacked by
snakes, and Wedge understood enough French to read the statement
underneath that the representation was absolutely life-like, and that
the death-agony was a masterpiece of acting.
“Rattlesnakes,” reflected the Colonel, eyeing the poster. “It’s
wonderful what they do in the way of films nowadays. Of course, they’ve
taken out the poison glands.”
He stood for a short time studying the poster, which was extremely
realistic, and then decided to enter. He went up to the ticket-office,
which stood on the pavement, and paid the entrance fee. It was obvious
that the establishment was not of the first order. A couple of rickety
wine-shops flanked it one on either side, and the ticket-office was
apparently an old sentry-box with a hole cut in the back.
Wedge took his ticket and glanced up the street. It was a day of
brilliant sunshine. At the far end of the narrow road there was a
glimpse of the white domes of the Sacré Cœur, standing on its rising
ground and looking like an Oriental palace. Only a few people were
about, and the wine-shops were empty.
A shaft of sunlight fell on the poster of the man fighting with
rattlesnakes, and the Colonel looked at it again. It attracted him in
some mysterious way, probably because physical problems interested him.
“Seems to be in a kind of pit,” he thought. “Otherwise he could run for
it. It is certainly life-like.”
He turned away, ticket in hand. A man standing before a faded plush
curtain beckoned to him, and Wedge passed from the bright light of day
into the darkness behind the curtain.
He could see nothing. Someone took his arm and led him forward. The
Colonel blinked, but the darkness was complete. Somewhere on his left he
could hear the familiar clicking of a cinematograph.
The hand on his arm piloted him gently along, and he had the impression
of walking in a curve. But it seemed an intolerably long curve. Since he
could not speak French, he was unable to ask how much farther he had to
go. He felt vaguely that people were round him, close to him, and
naturally concluded he was passing down the room where the performance
was being held.
_But where was the screen?_
He could not see a ray of light. Heavy, impenetrable darkness was before
him, and seemed to press on his eyelids like a cloth. Suddenly the hand
on his arm was lifted. Wedge stopped, blinking.
“Look here,” he said, with a feeling of irritation, “where am I?”
There was no answer. He waited, listening. He could hear nothing. The
clicking of the cinematograph was no longer audible.
Deeply perplexed, he held out his arms before him and took a step
forward. His outstretched foot descended on—nothing.
Wedge fell forward and downwards with a sharp cry. His fall was brief,
but it seemed endless to him. He landed, sprawling, on something soft.
Before he could move he was caught and held down with his face pressed
against the soft mass that felt like a heap of pillows. A suffocating,
pungent odour assailed his nostrils, and gradually consciousness slipped
away.
When Colonel Wedge came to his senses he found himself in a small room
lit by an oil-lamp hung against the wall. He was lying on a heap of
mattresses, bound hand and foot. At first he stared vaguely upwards.
Directly overhead was a circular mark in the ceiling. The sound of
voices struck on his ears, and, looking round, he saw a group of men
talking at a table near by.
With startling suddenness memory came back. He glanced up at the
ceiling. There was no doubt that the circular mark was the outline of
the trap-door through which he had fallen. He did not attempt to
struggle, but lay passively searching in his mind for some explanation
of his position.
The men at the table were talking in loud voices, but they spoke in
French. He could not understand what they said.
He looked round at them. Five of them—there were half a dozen—were
roughly dressed, with blue or red handkerchiefs knotted round their
throats; but one of them was of a different type, and looked like a
prosperous business man. He was the spokesman and leader of the group,
and Wedge noticed that he had a peculiarly evil, energetic type of face.
He spoke rapidly, occasionally nodding towards the heap of mattresses
and employing violent gestures. From time to time he thumped the table
before him. Finally he rose and crossed the room.
“My name is Dance,” he said. He stuck the cigar he was smoking into the
corner of his mouth and went on speaking between his teeth. “I’m an
Englishman by birth, and wonderfully fond of my fellow-countrymen.
That’s why you are here. You’re just the man I was wanting, and when I
saw you looking at that poster I could have hugged myself. What did you
think of it? Good, eh? Sorry you didn’t see the film.”
He chuckled to himself.
Wedge looked at him steadily and made no reply. The other shrugged his
shoulders and turned away. Some further discussion followed, and then
all six left the room.
Wedge waited until the sound of their footsteps had died away in the
passage without, and then raised himself. Owing to the way in which he
was bound he could not stand up. He looked around keenly. There was only
one door and no window. The walls were of rough brick, and it was clear
the place was a kind of cellar. Save for the table and chairs there was
no furniture. The stone floor was damp, and from one dark corner Wedge
could hear the trickling of water. After the first scrutiny of his
prison he lay back again on the mattresses and tried to think. He could
hear no sound of the traffic or footsteps from the road, and guessed
that it would be useless to shout. Save for the trickle of water and the
occasional hissing and spurting of the lamp, the place was absolutely
silent.
The atmosphere was thick and close. The flame of the lamp grew smaller
and smaller, and finally expired. Wedge lay in the darkness, open-eyed,
listening to the beating of his heart. He was thirsty. His throat was
dry and his head ached, and the cords round his wrists and feet bit into
the flesh. He made several powerful attempts to burst them, but in vain.
For what purpose did they want him? If it was simply a question of
robbery, why was he kept prisoner? An eternity seemed to pass. In
despair, he tried to sleep. But the question as to why he was in this
prison repeated itself and made sleep impossible.
Wedge was a man of tried courage, but there was something sinister in
his position that caused disagreeable thrills to pass down his back. The
trap-door, the chloroform, the cords, the group of evil-looking men were
not reassuring incidents. Moreover, the isolation in complete darkness
with the monotonous trickling of water unnerved him.
An hour went by, and he made another violent attempt to release himself.
His breath came in gasps. Before his shut eyes he saw sheets of red
flame. But his efforts were useless. Thoroughly exhausted he lay still
again, staring upwards.
Owing to some trick of vision, possibly because the strong sunlight had
intensified the colouring of the poster while he was studying it, he saw
a shadowy picture of the man fighting for his life in the pit full of
rattlesnakes hovering before him in the darkness. He thought grimly that
it would be some time before he would have the pleasure of seeing the
representation of that film—perhaps never. The latter event was more
likely. It was not probable that they would let him go free, because his
freedom would mean their arrest.
[Illustration: “Wedge, turning as it moved, always faced it” (page 81).]
“They want me for some purpose,” he muttered. “But what it is, Heaven
knows. It can’t be simple robbery. There’s no point in murdering me. I’m
not a person of any importance, so I don’t see where the object of
kidnapping comes in. Their game beats me, unless they’ve mistaken me for
someone else.”
A step outside interrupted his reflections. He heard the door open.
Something that sounded like a plate was put on the floor, and the steps
retreated down the passage. After a few minutes they became audible
again, and a light showed in the doorway. A man appeared holding a
candle. Colonel Wedge realised that it was the intention of his captors
that he should take some nourishment, and decided that to do so would be
the wisest course. There was no reason why he should weaken himself by
abstinence.
He submitted to being fed by his jailer, and eagerly drank the harsh red
wine that was offered to him. When the meal was finished he was left
alone again, but the candle was put on the table. By watching its rate
of decrease in length Wedge gained some idea of the passage of time. By
a calculation based on the number of his heart-beats, which were
normally sixty to the minute, he deduced that the candle would last for
about four hours. As a matter of fact, Wedge’s deduction was wrong. The
candle burned for three hours. Wedge was unaware that his heart was
beating eighty to the minute.
Months seemed to elapse before the candle shot up in a last flare. The
Colonel stared at the walls, at the rough, unfaced bricks, at the
trap-door in the ceiling. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He sat
up at intervals and looked round him. He rolled from one side to
another. But nothing helped to make the time pass more quickly, and when
he was left again in darkness he felt for the first time in his life how
easy it would be to go mad.
The tramp of feet roused him from a drowsy, half-conscious condition.
The door was flung open and a lantern shone in Wedge’s eyes. The men who
had sat at the table had returned. Two of them cut the cords round his
ankles and pulled him on to his feet. He stood with difficulty, for his
legs were numb.
The man Dance, who had previously spoken to him, whose evil face had
made an impression on the Colonel’s mind, sat down at the table, and
Wedge was placed before him.
“Speak no French?” he inquired.
“No.”
The man nodded, and played with a thick gold ring on one of his fingers.
His eyes were fixed on the Colonel’s face.
“What am I here for?” asked Wedge, quietly.
“You’ll see soon.”
“Do you want my money?”
“We’ve taken that already.”
They looked at each other steadily. The others in the cellar shuffled
uneasily. They did not seem to be so certain of themselves as the man at
the table.
“You’re an English officer, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve seen some fighting?”
The Colonel shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. He refused to
submit to a cross-examination at the hands of this scoundrel.
“All right,” said the other. “Don’t get angry. I promise you that you’ll
see some more fighting before you die.”
Something in the man’s expression made Wedge take a quick step towards
the table.
“What do you mean? Are you going to kill me?”
There was no answer, but the silence was enough. Wedge relaxed his
attitude slowly.
“Is it money you need?” he asked, after a pause.
“What’s the good of offering us money? Once you got out of this place,
you would give us away to the police. Yes, we need money, but not from
you.”
One thought dominated Wedge’s mind. It was clear that the situation did
not demand any unnecessary heroism. If anything could effect his escape
he was perfectly justified in making use of it.
“I will give you a thousand pounds, and will promise not to put the
affair in the hands of the police,” he said.
“He offers money, and gives his word of honour to say nothing to the
police!” exclaimed the other, looking at the men behind Wedge.
There was an outburst of violent opposition. They were wildly excited.
They were all round Wedge, shouting and gesticulating and brandishing
their fists in his face. He stood impassively in the centre of them with
his hands bound. What was this riot? Why did the eyes of these men shine
so strangely?
“Two thousand,” he said steadily.
“Impossible!” The man at the table jumped up. “This is only a waste of
time.”
He caught up the lantern and went out. The others, pushing Wedge before
them, followed. They passed through a long stone corridor, down some
narrow steps, and stopped before an iron door. Wedge heard the fumbling
of keys, the creak of a rusty lock, and the door swung open. The
interior was dark.
Dance stood by the door, holding the lantern aloft. In obedience to a
brief command Wedge’s hands were released.
“Hand him the club.”
A stout cudgel of twisted wood, with a heavy nobbed end, was thrust into
his hands. But Wedge was a man of action, and he saw in a flash that if
he was to escape from his unknown fate the opportunity had come. They
were trying to push him through the door into the dark interior.
“_Vite! Il est dangereux!_” exclaimed the man with the lantern.
But Wedge was too quick. He swung the club swiftly round, and the
lantern fell, smashed to atoms. In a moment he was seized by half a
dozen hands. He fought powerfully, but they hung on to him grimly, and
little by little he was thrust forward. He had not enough space to use
the club. He dropped it and used his fists, and more than once struck
the stone walls in the confusion of the struggle in the dark. Then
someone got hold of his throat, while the others fastened on his arms,
and he was thrown backwards. He heard the clang of the iron door and lay
gasping on the floor.
A blinding white light suddenly shone down on him. He staggered to his
feet and looked round, shading his eyes with his hands from the dazzling
glare. He was in a circular space bounded by smooth white walls. The
floor was sanded. Above him burned half a dozen arc-lamps, whose
brilliant rays were reflected directly downwards by polished metal
discs. The upper part of the place was in shadow, but he could make out
an iron balcony running partly round the wall, about fifteen feet above
the sanded floor.
Colonel Wedge went to the wall and began to examine its surface. It was
smooth, and seemed made of painted iron. The outline of the door through
which he had been flung was visible on one side, but directly opposite
there was the outline of another door. He went towards it. It was also
made of iron like the surrounding structure, and apparently opened
outwards. He pushed at it, but it was shut.
A sound of something falling on the floor made him turn. The wooden
cudgel had been thrown down from the iron platform above. Looking up, he
could dimly see a number of faces staring down at him, and also a couple
of box-like instruments, one at either end of the platform. It was
difficult to see clearly, for the light of the arc-lamps was intense. He
stared up, shielding his eyes, and then suddenly he saw what they were.
A couple of cinematograph machines were trained on the floor below!
It was not until then that Wedge fully realised his position. The
picture of the man fighting the rattlesnakes was suddenly explained. He
remembered the pit. He walked to the centre and stood with clenched
fists. Here was the pit. _Extremely life-like!_
He stooped and picked up the cudgel. At any rate, whatever he had to
face, he would make a fight for it.
Mechanically he found himself watching the second door. It was through
that door that the menace of death would come.
Up on the platform they were whispering together.
His brain was clear, and he felt calm. He knew that whatever came out
from behind that door would have the intention to kill. And he knew,
also, that it was not the wish of the onlookers that he should triumph.
It would not be a fair fight. In the moments of suspense he wondered in
a kind of deliberate, leisurely way what was coming. They would not
repeat the rattlesnake picture. That had already had its victim. In this
arena one man had acted the part of fear with marvellous realism—perhaps
others as well.
Cudgel in hand, ready and braced, with his free hand at his moustache,
Colonel Wedge waited, his eyes fixed on the door.
“Ah, I think you understand now,” said a voice out of the shadows above.
“We hope that this will make a fine film, the finest of this series that
we have done yet.”
Wedge did not move a muscle.
“We rely on you to do your best for us.”
Somewhere at the bottom of his heart the Colonel registered a vow that
if he ever got out of that place alive he would kill Dance.
A chuckle followed and then silence, except for the sizzling of the
arc-lamps.
Then he heard a sound of clicking. The cinematograph machines had begun.
“Ready?”
Wedge took his breath slowly. The door was opening.
He saw a gap of blackness widening in the white circular wall. The hand
that was at his moustache fell to his side. The cudgel rose a trifle,
and the muscles of his right arm stiffened. Inch by inch, without a
creak, the door swung outwards until it stood widely open.
For a few seconds nothing appeared. The suspense was becoming
unendurable, and Wedge had just made up his mind to approach when he saw
an indistinct form moving in the background of the shadowy interior, and
next moment a big yellow beast slipped out and stood blinking in the
strong light. He recognised the flat diamond head and tufted ears in a
moment. The door clanged behind it.
“Puma,” he muttered, with his eyes on the brute, and a spark of hope
glowed in his heart. There were worse brutes to face single-handed than
pumas, and he knew something of the capriciousness of the animal. It was
just possible——
His thoughts ceased abruptly. The beast was moving. It slunk on its
belly to the wall, and began to walk slowly round and round. Wedge,
turning as it moved, always faced it. It quickened its pace into a trot,
and as it ran it looked only occasionally at the man in the centre. It
seemed more interested in the wall. At times it stretched its head and
peered upwards.
In its lean white jaw and yellow eyes there was no message of hatred for
the moment. Suddenly it stopped and listened. The clicking of the
cinematograph had attracted it. It stood up against the wall, clawing at
the paint. Then it squatted on its haunches, with its back to Wedge, and
blinked up at the platform overhead.
The heavy fetid odour of the beast filled the air. Wedge relaxed himself
a little, but the puma heard the movement, for it looked round swiftly.
It behaved as if it had seen him for the first time, and began to pace
round and round again, eyeing him. It came to a halt near the door from
which it had emerged, and lay down flat, with its paws outstretched,
watching Wedge. He caught the sheen of its eyes. He remained still, for
at the slightest movement the brute quivered.
As yet he could read nothing vindictive in its look, but he knew that at
any moment it might change into a raging, snarling demon and spring.
Being a believer in the idea that animals are in some way conscious of
the emotional state in others and act accordingly, he tried to banish
all sense of fear and all sense of ill-will from his mind, and look at
it calmly and indifferently.
The puma, with its fore-paws extended on the sand and its head raised,
blinked lazily at him. It seemed half asleep by its attitude. Sometimes
the brilliant eyes were almost shut.
“Mordieu!” said a voice above. “He wants rousing.”
In a flash the animal was on its feet, rigid and glaring up. Apparently
the platform overhead roused its anger. Its tail began to whip from side
to side, and its lip lifted at one corner in a vicious snarl, uncovering
the white fang.
A clamour of voices broke out. The whole aspect of the beast changed.
Its eyes blazed. It stooped on its belly, glaring upwards. Was it
possible it recognised an old enemy amongst the spectators?
Wedge waited anxiously, and the sweat began to break out on his brow.
With bared claws, the animal crouched, still looking upwards. It seemed
to have forgotten Wedge. The men were shouting at it and stamping with
their feet on the iron floor of the platform. The beast put one paw out
and crept forward. The muscles rippled and bulged under the skin.
“It’s going to spring,” thought Wedge. “But it’s not looking at me.”
Slowly step by step the beast advanced. It passed scarcely two feet away
from Wedge, and went on without looking at him. When it was almost
directly under the platform it stopped and snarled upwards.
Then someone threw a lighted match on its back, and straightway it
became transformed into the devil-cat of tradition.
Wedge was never quite clear as to its movements after that, for it
flashed round the arena like a streak of yellow lightning He raised his
club, but the brute was not after him. It went twice, and then a third
time, round the white walls, and stopped for an instant, taut and low on
the sandy floor. And then it shot up in a magnificent leap towards the
shadows above the arc-lamps.
The shouts from the platform ceased suddenly, and then a wild hubbub
broke out.
Wedge heard the rattling and scraping of the beast’s claws against the
railings above and a shriek of terror. There was a stampede of feet. A
loud series of snarls followed and the sound of a body falling heavily.
Wedge stood for a moment dazed. Then he dashed across to the door
through which the beast had entered, and flung all his weight against
it. He tried again and again with all the weight of his powerful
shoulders. It yielded with a crash, and he fell flat into the cage on
the other side, amongst the foul straw.
He was up in an instant. By the light of the arc-lamps in the arena he
could make out that the cage had an iron grating on one side closed by a
bolt. He thrust his hand through the bars and worked back the bolt. Next
moment he was out of the cage and running down a dark stone corridor,
cudgel in hand, and determined to brain anyone who stood in his path. At
the top of a flight of steps he came to a door barred from the inside.
He flung aside the fastenings and staggered out into the sweet night
air.
When the police raided the cellars under the cinematograph show a few
hours later, led by Wedge, they found the puma asleep in its open cage,
and above, on the iron platform, all that was left of Mr. Dance,
inventor and producer of life-like films.
It was not until daylight came that Wedge discovered they had blackened
his eyebrows and drawn disfiguring lines across his face.