TERROR KEEP
BY
EDGAR WALLACE
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LIMITED LONDON
[DEDICATION]
TO
LESLIE FABER
(“/The Ringer/”)
CONTENTS
FOREWARD
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
TERROR KEEP
FOREWARD
/Rightly/ speaking, it is improper, not to say illegal, for those
sadly privileged few who go in and out of Broadmoor Criminal Asylum,
to have pointed out to them any particular character, however
notorious he may have been or to what heights of public interest his
infamy had carried him, before the testifying doctors and a merciful
jury consigned him to this place without hope. But often had John
Flack been pointed out as he shuffled about the grounds, his hands
behind him, his chin on his breast, a tall, lean old man in an
ill-fitting suit of drab clothing, who spoke to nobody and was spoken
to by few.
“That is Flack--the Flack; the cleverest crook in the world… Crazy
John Flack… nine murders…”
Men who were in Broadmoor for isolated homicides were rather proud of
Old John in their queer, sane moments. The officers who locked him up
at night and watched him as he slept had little to say against him,
because he gave no trouble, and through all the six years of his
incarceration had never once been seized of those frenzies which so
often end in the hospital for some poor innocent devil, and a
rubber-padded cell for the frantic author of misfortune.
He spent most of his time writing and reading, for he was something of
a genius with his pen, and wrote with extraordinary rapidity. He
filled hundreds of little exercise books with his great treatise on
crime. The Governor humoured him; allowed him to retain the books,
expecting in due course to add them to his already interesting museum.
Once, as a great concession, old Jack gave him a book to read, and the
Governor read and gasped. It was entitled “Method of robbing a bank
vault when only two guards are employed.” The Governor, who had been
a soldier, read and read, stopping now and then to rub his head; for
this document, written in the neat, legible hand of John Flack, was
curiously reminiscent of a divisional order for attack. No detail was
too small to be noted; every contingency was provided for. Not only
were the constituents of the drug to be employed to “settle the outer
watchman” given, but there was an explanatory note which may be
quoted:
“If this drug is not procurable, I advise that the operator should
call upon a suburban doctor and describe the following symptoms… The
doctor will then prescribe the drug in a minute quantity. Six bottles
of this medicine should be procured, and the following method adopted
to extract the drug…”
“Have you written much like this, Flack?” asked the wondering officer.
“This?” John Flack shrugged his lean shoulders. “I am doing this for
amusement, just to test my memory. I have already written sixty-three
books on the subject, and those works are beyond improvement. During
the six years I have been here, I have not been able to think of a
single improvement to my old system.”
Was he jesting? Was this a flight of a disordered mind? The Governor,
used as he was to his charges and their peculiar ways, was not
certain.
“You mean you have written an encyclopaedia of crime?” he asked
incredulously. “Where is it to be found?”
Old Flack’s thin lips curled in a disdainful smile, but he made no
answer.
Sixty-three hand-written volumes represented the life work of John
Flack. It was the one achievement upon which he prided himself.
On another occasion when the Governor referred to his extraordinary
literary labours, he said:
“I have put a huge fortune in the hands of any clever man--providing,
of course,” he mused, “that he is a man of resolution and the books
fall into his hands at a very early date--in these days of scientific
discovery, what is a novelty to-day is a commonplace to-morrow.”
The Governor had his doubts as to the existence of these deplorable
volumes, but very soon after the conversation took place he had to
revise his judgment. Scotland Yard, which seldom if ever chases
chimerae, sent down one Chief-Inspector Simpson, who was a man
entirely without imagination and had been promoted for it. His
interview with Crazy John Flack was a brief one.
“About these books of yours, Jack,” he said. “It would be terrible if
they fell into wrong hands. Ravini says you’ve got a hundred volumes
hidden somewhere----”
“Ravini?” Old John Flack showed his teeth. “Listen, Simpson! You don’t
think you’re going to keep me in this awful place all my life, do you?
If you do, you’ve got another guess coming. I’ll skip one of these odd
nights--you can tell the Governor if you like--and then Ravini and I
are going to have a little talk.”
His voice grew high and shrill. The old mad glitter that Simpson had
seen before came back to his eyes.
“Do you ever have day-dreams, Simpson? I have three! I’ve got a new
method of getting away with a million: that’s one, but it’s not
important. Another one is Reeder: you can tell J. G. what I say. It’s
a dream of meeting him alone one nice, dark, foggy night, when the
police can’t tell which way the screams are coming. And the third is
Ravini. George Ravini’s got one chance, and that is for him to die
before I get out!”
“You’re mad,” said Simpson.
“That’s what I’m here for,” said John Flack truthfully.
This conversation with Simpson and that with the Governor were two of
the longest he ever had, all the six years he was in Broadmoor. Mostly
when he wasn’t writing he strolled about the grounds, his chin on his
chest, his hands clasped behind him. Occasionally he reached a certain
place near the high wall, and it is said that he threw letters over,
though this is very unlikely. What is more possible is that he found a
messenger who carried his many and cryptic letters to the outer world
and brought in exchange monosyllabic replies. He was a very good
friend of the officer in charge of his ward, and one early morning
this man was discovered with his throat cut. The ward door was open,
and John Flack had gone out into the world to realise his day-dreams.
CHAPTER I
/There/ were two subjects which irritated the mind of Margaret Belman
as the Southern Express carried her towards Selford Junction and the
branch-line train which crawled from the junction to Siltbury. The
first of these was, not unnaturally, the drastic changes she now
contemplated, and the effect they already had had upon Mr. J. G.
Reeder, that mild and middle-aged man.
When she had announced that she was seeking a post in the country, he
might at least have shown some evidence of regret: a certain glumness
would have been appropriate at any rate. Instead he had brightened
visibly at the prospect.
“I am afraid I shan’t be able to come to London very often,” she had
said.
“That is good news,” said Mr. Reeder, and added some banality about
the value of periodical changes of air and the beauty of getting near
to nature. In fact, he had been more cheerful than he had been for a
week, which was rather exasperating.
Margaret Belman’s pretty face puckered as she recalled her
disappointment and chagrin. All thoughts of dropping this application
of hers disappeared. Not that she imagined for one moment that a
six-hundred-a-year secretaryship was going to fall into her lap for
the mere asking. She was wholly unsuited for the job, she had no
experience of hotel work, and the chances of her being accepted were
remote.
As to the Italian man who had made so many attempts to make her
acquaintance, he was one of the unpleasant commonplaces so familiar to
a girl who worked for her living that in ordinary circumstances she
would not have given him a second thought.
But that morning he had followed her to the station, and she was
certain that he had heard her tell the girl who came with her that she
was returning by the 6.15. A policeman would deal effectively with
him--if she cared to risk the publicity. But a girl, however sane,
shrinks from such an ordeal, and she must deal with him in her own
way.
That was not a happy prospect, and the two matters in combination were
sufficient to spoil what otherwise might have been a very happy or
interesting afternoon. As to Mr. Reeder…
Margaret Belman frowned. She was twenty-three, an age when youngish
men are rather tiresome. On the other hand, men in the region of fifty
are not especially attractive; and she loathed Mr. Reeder’s
side-whiskers, that made him look rather like a Scottish butler. Of
course, he was a dear.…
Here the train reached the junction. She found herself at the
surprisingly small station of Siltbury before she had quite made up
her mind whether she was in love with Mr. Reeder or merely annoyed
with him.
The driver of the station cab stopped his unhappy-looking horse before
the small gateway and pointed with his whip.
“This is the best way in for you, miss,” he said. “Mr. Daver’s office
is at the end of the path.”
He was a shrewd old man, who had driven many applicants for the post
of secretary to Larmes Keep, and he guessed that this, the prettiest
of all, did not come as a guest. In the first place, she brought no
baggage, and then too the ticket-collector had come running after her
to hand back the return half of the railway ticket which she had
absent-mindedly surrendered.
“I’d better wait for you, miss…?”
“Oh, yes, please,” said Margaret Belman hastily as she got down from
the dilapidated victoria.
“You got an appointment?”
The cabman was a local character, and local characters assume
privileges.
“I ast you,” he explained carefully, “because lots of young wimmin
have come up to Larmes without appointments and Mr. Daver wouldn’t see
’em. They just cut out the advertisement and come along, but the ad.
says _write_. I suppose I’ve made a dozen journeys with young wimmin
who ain’t got appointments. I’m telling you for your own good.”
The girl smiled.
“You might have warned them before they left the station,” she said
good-humouredly, “and saved them the cab fare. Yes, I have an
appointment.”
From where she stood by the gate she had a clear view of Larmes Keep.
It bore no resemblance to an hotel and less to the superior
boarding-house that she knew it to be. That part of the house which
had been the original Keep was easily distinguished, though the grey,
straight walls were masked with ivy that covered also part of the
buildings which had been added in the course of the years.
She looked across a smooth green lawn, on which were set a few wicker
chairs and tables, to a rose garden which, even in late autumn, was a
blaze of colour. Behind this was a belt of pine trees that seemed to
run to the cliff’s edge. She had a glimpse of a grey-blue sea and a
blur of dim smoke from a steamer invisible below the straight horizon.
A gentle wind carried the fragrance of the pines to her, and she
sniffed ecstatically.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” she breathed.
The cabman said it “wasn’t bad,” and pointed with his whip again.
“It’s that little square place--only built a few years ago. Mr. Daver
is more of a writing gentleman than a boarding-house gentleman.”
She unlatched the oaken gate and walked up the stone path towards the
sanctum of the writing gentleman. On either side of the crazy pavement
was a deep border of flowers--she might have been passing through a
cottage garden.
There was a long window and a small green door to the annexe.
Evidently she had been seen, for, as her hand went up to the brass
bell-push, the door opened.
It was obviously Mr. Daver himself. A tall, thin man of fifty, with a
yellow, elf-like face and a smile that brought all her sense of humour
into play. Very badly she wanted to laugh. The long upper lip overhung
the lower, and except that the face was thin and lined, he had the
appearance of some grotesque and foolish mascot. The staring, round,
brown eyes, the puckered forehead, and a twist of hair that stood
upright on the crown of his head, made him more brownie-like than
ever.
“Miss Belman?” he asked, with a certain eagerness.
He lisped slightly, and had a trick of clasping his hands as if he
were in an agony of apprehension lest his manner should displease.
“Come into my den,” he said, and gave such emphasis to the last word
that she nearly laughed again.
The “den” was a very comfortably furnished study, one wall of which
was covered with books. Closing the door behind her, he pushed up a
chair with a little nervous laugh.
“I’m so very glad you came. Did you have a comfortable journey? I’m
sure you did. And is London hot and stuffy? I’m afraid it is. Would
you like a cup of tea? Of course you would.”
He fired question and answer so rapidly that she had no chance of
replying, and he had taken up a telephone and ordered the tea before
she could express a wish on the subject.
“You are young--very young,”--he shook his head sadly.
“Twenty-four--no? Do you use the typewriter? What a ridiculous
question to ask!”
“It is very kind of you to see me, Mr. Daver,” she said, “and I don’t
suppose for one moment that I shall suit you. I have had no experience
of hotel management, and I realise, from the salary you offer----”
“Quiet,” said Mr. Daver, shaking his head solemnly: “that is what I
require. There is very little work, but I wished to be relieved even
of that little. My own labours”--he waved his hand to a pedestal desk
littered with papers--“are colossal. I need a lady to keep
accounts--to watch my interests. Somebody I can trust. I believe in
faces, do you? I see that you do. And in the character of handwriting?
You believe in that also. I have advertised for three months and have
interviewed thirty-five applicants. Impossible! Their
voices--terrible! I judge people by their voices--so do you. On Monday
when you telephoned I said to myself, ‘The Voice!’”
He was clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles showed
white, and this time her laughter was almost beyond arrest.
“But, Mr. Daver, I know nothing of hotel management. I think I could
learn, and I want the position, naturally. The salary is terribly
generous.”
“‘Terribly generous,’” repeated the man in a murmur. “How curious
those words sound in juxtaposition! My housekeeper. How kind of you to
bring the tea, Mrs. Burton!”
The door had opened and a woman bearing a silver tray came in. She was
dressed very neatly in black. The faded eyes scarcely looked at
Margaret as she stood meekly waiting whilst Mr. Daver spoke.
“Mrs. Burton, this is the new secretary to the company. She must have
the best room in the Keep--the Blue Room. But--ah!”--he pinched his
lip anxiously--“blue may not be your colour?”
Margaret laughed.
“Any colour is my colour,” she said. “But I haven’t decided----”
“Go with Mrs. Burton; see the house--your office, your room. Mrs.
Burton!”
He pointed to the door, and before the girl knew what she was doing
she had followed the housekeeper through the door. A narrow passage
connected the private office of Mr. Daver with the house, and Margaret
was ushered into a large and lofty room which covered the superficial
area of the Keep.
“The Banquittin’ ’All,” said Mrs. Burton in a thin, Cockney voice
remarkable for its monotony. “It’s used as a lounge. We’ve only got
three boarders. Mr. Daver’s very partic’lar. We get a lot in for the
winter.”
“Three boarders isn’t a very paying proposition,” said the girl.
Mrs. Burton sniffed.
“Mr. Daver don’t want it to pay. It’s the company he likes. He only
turned it into a boardin’ house because he likes to see people come
and go without having to talk to ’em. It’s a nobby.”
“A what?” asked the puzzled girl. “Oh, you mean a hobby?”
“I said a nobby,” said Mrs. Burton, in her listless, uncomplaining
way.
Beyond the hall was a small and cosier sitting-room with French
windows opening on to the lawn. Outside the window three people sat at
tea. One was an elderly clergyman with a strong, hard face. He was
eating toast and reading a church paper, oblivious of his companion.
The second of the party was a pale-faced girl about Margaret’s own
age. In spite of her pallor she was extraordinarily beautiful. A pair
of big, dark eyes surveyed the visitor for a moment and then returned
to her companion, a military-looking man of forty.
Mrs. Burton waited until they were ascending the broad stairway to the
upper floor before she “introduced” them.
“The clergyman’s a Reverend Dean from South Africa, the young lady’s
Miss Olga Crewe, the other gent is Colonel Hothling--they’re boarders.
This is your room, miss.”
It was indeed a gem of an apartment; the sort of room that Margaret
Belman had dreamt about. It was exquisitely furnished, and, like all
the other rooms at Larmes Keep (as she discovered later), was provided
with its private bathroom. The walls were panelled to half their
height, the ceilings heavily beamed. She guessed that beneath the
parquet underneath was the original stone-flagged floor.
Margaret looked and sighed. It was going to be very hard to refuse
this post--and why she should think of refusing at all she could not
for the life of her understand.
“It’s a beautiful room,” she said, and Mrs. Burton cast an apathetic
eye round the apartment.
“It’s old,” she said. “I don’t like old houses. I used to live in
Brixton----”
She stopped abruptly, sniffed in a deprecating way, and jingled the
keys that she carried in her hand.
“You’re suited, I suppose?”
“Suited? You mean am I taking the appointment? I don’t know yet.”
Mrs. Burton looked round vaguely. The girl had the impression that she
was trying to say something in praise of the place--something that
would prejudice her in favour of accepting the appointment. Then she
spoke.
“The food’s good,” she said, and Margaret smiled.
When she came back through the hall she saw the three people she had
seen at tea. The colonel was walking by himself; the clergyman and the
pale-faced girl were strolling across the lawn talking to one another.
Mr. Daver was sitting at his desk, his high forehead resting on his
palm, and he was biting the end of a pen as Mrs. Burton closed the
door on them.
“You like the room: naturally. You will start--when? Next Monday week,
I think. What a relief! You have seen Mrs. Burton.” He wagged a finger
at her roguishly. “Ah! Now you know! It is impossible! Can I leave her
to meet the duchess and speed the duke? Can I trust her to adjust the
little quarrels that naturally arise between guests? You are right--I
can’t. I must have a lady here--I must, I must!”
He nodded emphatically, his impish brown eyes fixed on hers, the
bulging upper lip grotesquely curved in a delighted grin.
“My work suffers, as you say: constantly to be brought from my studies
to settle such matters as the fixing of a tennis net--intolerable!”
“You write a great deal?” she managed to ask. She felt she must
postpone her decision to the last possible moment.
“A great deal. On crime. Ah, you are interested? I am preparing an
encyclopaedia of crime!” He said this impressively, dramatically.
“On crime?”
He nodded.
“It is one of my hobbies. I am a rich man and can afford hobbies. This
place is a hobby. I lose four thousand a year, but I am satisfied. I
pick and choose my own guests. If one bores me I tell him to go--that
his room has been taken. Could I do that if they were my friends? No.
They interest me. They fill the house; they give me company and
amusement. When will you come?”
She hesitated.
“I think----”
“Monday week? Excellent!” He shook her hand vigorously. “You need not
be lonely. If my guests bore you, invite your own friends. Let them
come as the guests of the house. Until Monday!”
She was walking down the garden path to the waiting cabman, a little
dazed, more than a little undecided.
“Did you get the place, miss?” asked the friendly cabman.
“I suppose I did,” replied Margaret.
She looked back towards Larmes Keep. The lawns were empty, but near at
hand she had one glimpse of a woman. Only for a second, and then she
disappeared in a belt of laurel that ran parallel with the boundary
wall of the property. Evidently there was a rough path through the
bushes, and Mrs. Burton had sought this hiding-place. Her hands
covered her face as she staggered forward blindly, and the faint sound
of her sobs came back to the astonished girl.
“That’s the housekeeper--she’s a bit mad,” said the cabman calmly.