I told him, and he started to cry. At last he became quiet enough to
talk to me. What he told me, with slight variants, was the story of all
the men there and all the men who had been there but who had died. Each
man had been master for a day or a week. Each had found the cellar door
and had come to the Donna Marchesi for the key. Some had been suspicious
and had written their thoughts on the wall of their bedroom. But one and
all had, in the end, found their curiosity more than they could resist
and had opened the door. On the other side they had been overpowered and
chained to a pillar, and there they had remained till they died. Some of
them lived longer than the rest. Smith of Boston had been there over two
years, though he was coughing badly and did not think that he could last
much longer. Seabrook told me their names. They were the best blood of
America, with three Englishmen and one Frenchman.
"And are you all blind?" I whispered, dreading the answer.
"Yes. That happens the first night we are here. She does it with her
nails."
"And she comes every night?"
"Every night. She feeds us and sings to us and we applaud. When one of
us dies, she unchains the body, and throws it down a hole somewhere. She
talks to us about that hole sometimes and brags that she is going to
fill it up before she stops."
"But who is helping her?"
"I think it is the real-estate man. Of course, the old devils upstairs
help. I think that they must drug us. Some of the men say that they went
to sleep in their beds and woke, chained to their posts."
My voice trembled as I bent over and whispered in his ear, "What would
you do, George, if she came and sang, and you found that you were not
chained? You and the other men not chained? What would you men do,
George?"
"Ask them," he snarled. "Ask them, one at a time. But I know what I
would do. I know!"
And he started to cry, because he could not do it the next second; cried
from rage and helplessness till the tears ran from his empty sockets.
"Does she always come at the same time?"
"As far as I know. But time is nothing to us. We just wait for death."
"Are the chains locked?"
"Yes. And she must have the key. But we could file the links if only we
had files. If only each of us had a file, we could get free. Perhaps the
man upstairs has a key, but I hardly think so."
"Did you write on that pretty wall upstairs, the whitewashed wall?"
"I did; I think we all did. One man wrote a sonnet to the woman, verses
in her honor, telling about her beautiful eyes. He raved about that poem
for hours while he was dying. Did you ever see it on the wall?"
"I did not see it. The old people whitewash the walls before each new
master comes."
"I thought so."
"Are you sure you would know what to do, George, if she sang to you and
you were loose?"
"Yes, we would know."
So I left him, promising an end to the matter as soon as I could arrange
it.
* * * * *
The next day saw me calling on the Donna Marchesi. I took her flowers
that time, a corsage of vivid purple and scarlet orchids. She
entertained me in her music room and I, taking the hint, asked her to
sing. Shyly, almost with reluctance, she did as I asked. She sang the
selection from the Italian opera that I knew so well. I was generous in
my applause.
She smiled.
"You like to hear me sing?"
"Indeed! I want to hear you again. I could hear you daily without
growing tired."
"You're nice," she purred. "Perhaps it could be arranged."
"You are too modest. You have a wonderful voice. Why not give it to the
world?"
"I sang once in public," she sighed. "It was in New York, at a private
musical. There were many men there. Perhaps it was stage fright; my
voice broke badly, and the audience, especially the men, were not kind.
I am not sure, but I thought that I heard some of them hiss me."
"Surely not!" I protested.
"Indeed, so. But no man has hissed my singing since then."
"I hope not!" I replied indignantly. "You have a wonderful voice, and,
when I applauded you, I was sincere. By the way, may I change my mind
and ask for the key to the door in the cellar?"
"Do you want it, really want it, my friend?"
"I am sure I do. I may never use it, but it will please me to have it.
Little things in life make me happy, and this key is a little thing."
"Then you shall have it. Will you do me a favor? Wait till Sunday to use
it. Today is Friday, and you will not have to wait many hours."
"It will be a pleasure to do as you desire," I replied, kissing her
hand. "And shall I hear you sing again? May I come often to hear you
sing?"
"I promise you that," she sighed. "I am sure that you will hear me sing
often in the future. I feel that in some way our fates approach the same
star."
I looked into her eyes, her yellow cat-eyes, and I was sure that she
spoke the truth. Destiny had certainly brought me to find her in Sorona.
* * * * *
I bought two dozen rat-tailed files, and dashed across the mountains to
Milan. There I was closeted with the consuls of three nations: England,
France and my own. They did not want to believe my story. I gave them
names, and they had to admit that there had been inquiries, but they
felt that the main details were nightmares, resulting from an over-use
of Italian wines. But I insisted that I was not drunk with new wine. At
last, they called in the chief of the detective bureau. He knew Franco,
the real-estate agent; also the lady in question. And he had heard
something of the villa; not much, but vague whisperings.
"We will be there Saturday night," he promised. "That leaves you
tonight. The lady will not try to trap you till Sunday. Can you attend
to the old people?"
"They will be harmless. See that Franco does not have a chance to
escape. Here is the extra key to the door. I will go through before
twelve. When I am ready, I will open the door. If I am not out by one in
the morning, you come through with your police. Do we all understand?"
"I understand," said the American consul. "But I still think you are
dreaming."
Back at the villa, I again drugged the old people, not much, but enough
to insure their sleep that night. They liked me. I was liberal with my
gold, and I carelessly showed them where I kept my reserve.
Then I went through the door. Again I heard the Donna Marchesi sing to
an audience that would never hiss her. She left, and I started to
distribute the files. From one blind wretch to the next I went,
whispering words of cheer and instruction for the next night. They were
to cut through a link in the chain, but in such a way that the Tiger Cat
would not suspect that they had gained their liberty. Were they pleased
to have a hope of freedom? I am not sure, but they were delighted at
another prospect.
The next night I doubled the tips to the old servants. With tears of
gratitude in their eyes, they thanked me as they called me their dear
master. I put them to sleep as though they were babies. In fact, I
wondered at the time if they would ever recover from the dose of chloral
I gave them. I did not even bother to tie them, but just tossed them on
their beds.
At half past ten, automobiles began to arrive with darkened lights. We
had a lengthy conference, and soon after eleven I went through the door.
I lost no time in making sure that each of the blind mice was a free
man, but I insisted that they act as though bound till the proper time.
They were trembling, but it was not from fear, not that time.
Back in my hiding-place I waited, and soon I heard the singing voice.
Ten minutes later the Donna Marchesi had her lantern hung on the nail.
Ah! She was more beautiful that night than I had ever seen her. Dressed
in filmy white, her beautiful body, lovely hair, long lithe limbs would
have bound any man to her through eternity. She seemed to sense that
beauty, for, after giving out the first supply of rolls, she varied her
program. She told her audience how she had dressed that evening for
their special pleasure. She described her jewels and her costume. She
almost became grandiose as she told of her beauty, and, driving in the
dagger, she twisted it as she reminded them that never would they be
able to see her, never touch her or kiss her hand. All they could do was
to hear her sing, applaud and at last die.
Of all the terrible things in her life that little talk to those blind
men was the climax.
And then she sang. I watched her closely, and I saw what I suspected.
She sang with her eyes closed. Was she in fancy seeming that she was in
an opera-house before thousands of spellbound admirers? Who knows? But
ever as she sang that night her eyes were closed, and even as she came
to a close, waiting for the usual applause, her eyes were closed.
* * * * *
She waited in the silence for the clap of hands. It did not come. With
terrific anger, she whirled to her basket and reached for her whip.
"Dogs!" she cried. "Have you so soon forgot your lesson?"
And then she realized that the twenty blind men were closing in on her.
They were silent, but their outstretched hands were feeling for
something that they wanted very much. Even when her whip started to cut,
they were silent. Then one man touched her. To her credit, there was no
sign of fear. She knew what had happened. She must have known, but she
was not afraid. Her single scream was nothing but the battle-cry of the
tiger cat going into action.
There was a single cry, and that was all. The men reached for what they
wanted in silence. For a while they were all in a struggling group on
their feet, but soon they were all on the ground. It was simply a mass,
and under that mass was a biting, scratching, fighting, dying animal.
I couldn't stand it. I had planned it all, I wanted it all to happen,
but when it came, I just couldn't stand it. Covered with the sweat of
fear, I ran to the door and unlocked it. I swung it open, went through
the doorway, closed it and locked it again. The men, waiting for me in
the cellar, looked on with doubt. It seemed that they were right in
thinking that my tale was an alcoholic one.
"Give me whisky!" I gasped, as I dropped on the floor.
In a few minutes I had recovered.
"Open the door," I ordered. "And bring the blind men out."
One at a time they were brought to the kitchen, and identified. Some
were terribly mutilated in the face, long deep scratches, and even
pieces bitten out, and one had the corner of his mouth torn. Most of
them were sobbing hysterically, but, in some way, though none said so, I
judged that they were all happy.
We went back to the cellar and through the door. On the stone floor was
a clotted mass of red and white.
"What's that?" asked the American consul.
"I think that is the Donna Marchesi," I replied. "She must have met with
an accident."