Catherine opened her eyes.
What was this red glow round her, sending forth waves of pulsing heat?
Was she still dreaming?
The night had been one long jumble of phantasmas, sucking her back
like quicksands whenever she seemed on the point of waking. In most of
them fire had figured, thick foggy smoke, pierced by flashes of murky
flame. It must be a repetition of her fevered delusions, this
furnace-like atmosphere which caused her head to throb and her parched
throat to ache from dryness.
Incapable of analysing her impressions, she lay surveying the crimson
haze through eyelids drooping of their own weight. Meanwhile, her
languid brain recalled the visions sleep had conjured up to torment
her, reviewing them one by one.
A waxen face--whose was it?--tear-stained and lit by tall white
candles, which as she watched, grew, lengthening into rockets which
shot off through space. Then another face, sallow and hard, with
round, close-set eyes, which stared steadily at her with venomous
hatred. Curiously enough, this face showed crossed and recrossed by an
iron grille, as though it were seen through prison bars. Wherever she
turned it was there, watching her, baleful and livid. She could not
get away from it. Indeed, she had been possessed by the familiar
nightmare of paralysis, feeling herself bound, unable to move. Finally
in her dream she had made a sickening discovery. She was trapped in a
huge web, legs and arms imprisoned by pitiless meshes, which cut into
her when she turned and twisted to escape.
Next, periodically recurring, had been an impression surely culled
from the _Arabian Nights_ of her childhood. A crack in the ground at
her feet had yawned wide, while out of it poured dun-coloured smoke,
assuming to her fascinated eyes the form of a demon. Rapidly it
swelled to gigantic size, its swart features horribly magnified, one
upraised hand brandishing a cudgel with which to strike her. There was
no eluding that certain doom. Inexorably the arm descended, she reeled
with the shock of pain, and sank again into oblivion.…
Now the faces had vanished, leaving her to wander with leaden feet in
a desert of dazzling sand. On every side stretched the hot waste, upon
which the copper disc of a sun beat down through waves of quivering
heat. The sand itself suffocated her, filling her eyes, her teeth, her
throat with its clogging particles. She longed for water, with a
thirst more devastating than any she had ever known. Water--water! Was
there none in the world? She scanned the horizon in search of some
spring where she could throw herself down and drink to repletion, but
although a faint shimmer appeared in the distance, she knew she could
never attain it, for at every step she sank into the yielding mass of
sand.
Even now, though her head ached blindingly and she was conscious of a
dire sickness in her stomach, every other sensation was dwarfed by
appalling thirst. She could drink a well dry. The thought came to her
that she was ill once more and had wakened early after a night of
fever. The red light must be that of early morning.
Opening her eyes wide, she glanced curiously round, wonder growing to
find her room so strangely altered. What was this thick material
hanging beside her, cutting off the air? Why, it was a curtain--heavy,
red damask. Her bed had no curtains. The windows, too, were covered in
red, and so were the walls--crimson damask, all alike. With the light
showing through the cracks the entire place had the look of being
suffused in blood.
All at once it dawned on her that this was not her room at all, nor
yet the one she had occupied at Fontainebleau. No, it was some new
bed-chamber she had never seen before. In the hot glow she spied a
walnut dressing-table, its oblong mirror touched by a shaft of sun,
which by reflection threw a brilliant patch upon the opposite wall.
There were chairs with red cushions, a stool, and a stand filled with
books in yellow paper covers. On the stand stood a vase containing a
bunch of dead anemones, withered and dried into the mere ghosts of
flowers. The air between danced with sparkling motes.
Where was she then? Had she been here a long time, and had her memory
gone?
Her baffled cogitations occupied but the fraction of a second. Almost
immediately recollection rushed upon her, and in a vivid flash of
horror she saw again the picture last witnessed with her waking
eyes--Jeanne’s dark face close to her own, Eduardo’s swarthy, furious
features, the glitter of the candle-stick in his lifted hand, and
round her swirls of grey smoke.
She tried to scream, but there was a tight gag between her teeth; to
spring up from the bed, only to find herself securely bound so that
she could stir neither hand nor foot. All she could do was to struggle
into a sitting posture, an achievement which tore her hair away from
the material beneath with a sensation of pain. Turning she saw that
she had been lying upon a folded bath-towel, on which were dark
stains. That meant she had been wounded. This stickiness contracting
her forehead and brows was blood, dried into a cake. How badly was she
hurt? She could not loose her hands to explore the injury.
At a little distance lay her new green hat, crushed and blood-smeared.
It came to her that it was probably due to that protective covering
that she was alive at all, the felt having deadened the blow which
struck her down. The hat had saved her--but for what? Yet surely
someone would discover her, help would come soon.
Then, even as hope crossed her mind she noticed again the withered
anemones, the dust thick upon the furniture, and grasped the fact that
wherever she was, the room had not been entered for days, perhaps
longer. No one was likely to look for her here. The place was
unoccupied.…
Where was she? There was nothing to guide her. She might be near Mme.
Bender’s apartment, or miles away in some distant quarter of Paris. At
least she was reasonably sure that this room was not one of the locked
ones in her cousin’s flat. These red damask walls spoke of an alien
taste in decoration.
Terror gripped her, sweat burst from every pore and streamed down into
her eyes. She felt she must not waste a minute, but make a desperate
effort to free her hands, get the choking gag out of her mouth so that
she could shout till someone heard her. For a short time she fought
with might and main, but presently, forced by exhaustion to give up
the attempt, fell back limp and panting. Not only were her wrists
tied, but the bands, which seemed to be strips of linen, encircled her
body layer after layer, up to her elbows. Similarly her legs were
swathed in mummy-like wrappings, while the knot which fastened the gag
was so well contrived that without the use of her fingers it was
hopeless to think of removing it. The struggle had left her weak and
dizzy. Nausea overcame her, the room swam before her in a red haze.
At last she mustered her faculties. Round her was unbroken stillness,
and such sounds as came from out-of-doors were muffled and faint--only
distant motor-horns, nothing to indicate whether she was in the
neighbourhood she knew or another locality altogether. However, the
street noises were so far away that she concluded the room must be at
the rear of a building. Beyond this she could decide nothing at all.
Who owned the place, why it was deserted, remained a mystery.
She must have been faint from loss of blood, for every now and then
the scene clouded over and she was unable to concentrate. When, after
one of these intervals of semi-stupor, fear roused her afresh, she
noticed with a shock that the light, instead of increasing, was fading
rapidly away. The glow was gone, swallowed up in a deepening twilight.
Night was coming on. In a little while she would be in total darkness.
She shuddered as with ague at the thought.
It was Saturday evening then. A swift calculation told her she must
have been here about seventeen hours. What had happened about the
fire? Germaine was dead. There could be no doubt of that. The memory
of the still face lit by flickering flames came before her poignantly.
Well then, the thing could not be hushed up, the news by now must be
in the papers. Did Geoffrey know? Then she remembered that he had
planned to drive to Fontainebleau soon after lunch, consequently if he
did not hear what had happened before that time there would be nothing
to stop him. Perhaps even now he was ignorant, asking himself why she
had not telephoned to save him a useless journey. As likely as not he
was feeling annoyed with her for her thoughtlessness. The Hardwickes,
too--what had they thought when she failed to meet them this morning?
They were on their way to Italy hours ago. In all Paris there was not
one person who would miss her till it was too late.
Her brain recoiled from the obvious conclusion. Shivering in every
benumbed muscle, she lay still and strove to pray.…
It was darker now. She could just make out the shapes of the
furniture, with the pale rectangle of the mirror dimly visible. Alone,
powerless to move or cry out, here she would have to lie like a rabbit
in a snare and wait--how long? Perhaps till reason deserted her. As to
her ultimate fate she harboured no delusions. Since last night she was
a dangerous witness, and as such must be suppressed. Those murderers
could not afford to let her live. To save their own skins they must do
away with her completely before anyone could guess the truth.
How did one dispose of bodies? Safest and surest way--the Seine, that
swift-flowing tide which yearly carried away a toll of victims! Or
would they carry her to some remote corner of the Bois de Boulogne, or
the Bois de Vincennes, there to leave her for the police to find? No,
they would hardly attempt that. Drowning was so much simpler.
Thus she lay with cramped body and tortured brain, freezing and
burning alternately, till a merciful coma engulfed her senses. Hours
passed and she knew nothing.
What was this new sound penetrating her consciousness, calling her
back persistently to reality? Music--a violin playing, not far away.
She listened, straining her ears to catch the high, pure notes.
Silvery and fine they soared, above a faint piano accompaniment, and
with a measured rhythm she knew at once for that of the Albeniz Tango.
Where had she heard it played like that, with that identical phrasing,
and with the lilting _ritardando_ just where she knew it would come?
Then she remembered.
Tears sprang to her eyes, her dry throat contracted as a voice
whispered that this was probably the last time she would listen to
music, and that never again would she feel the embrace of strong arms.
At the same time another portion of her brain registered the knowledge
that she was still within close range of the unseen violinist,
consequently not far removed from her former dwelling.
Oh! If only she could make a noise, break a window, knock over a piece
of furniture--anything! As the tango drifted on to its final cadence
she began a renewed struggle, battling hard to shift her body towards
the edge of the bed. It was worse than useless. She was far too weak,
nor could she move her elbows to get sufficient leverage.
The playing continued. Now it was the _Caprice Viennois_, with its
wooing double-thirds and its fantastic interlude, making her picture
masked figures flitting along a dark alley, mysterious moths moon-lit
under a sky dappled with inky clouds. Carnaval, a spring night, all
the thrilling aspects of life which she was about to leave for ever.
Then followed the César Franck sonata, graceful and delicate as a
spray of apple-blossoms. The agony of it now seemed more than she
could endure.
The recital ceased. How quiet it was! Only those distant staccato
motor-horns, stabbing the stillness, reminding her that all around
free and careless pleasure-seekers went their various ways, little
dreaming what torment existed within this locked and airless room. For
perhaps ten minutes she lay and listened to the pounding of her heart,
thump after thump, quick, regular blows of a hammer. She counted the
strokes mechanically, to keep from thinking.
Suddenly she stiffened as another noise reached her ears. Without
warning a door was opened stealthily, and muffled footfalls
approached. Instantly she sat up again, bathed in sweat. Someone had
entered the flat, was coming softly and without hesitation towards her
hiding-place. Before she could do more than brace her pinioned body
against the wall, a key grated in the lock and the invisible intruder
entered. In the dense darkness she caught the quick inhalation of a
hurried breath, and for an instant thought that her heart would burst.
A hand fumbled along the wainscoting, as though feeling for a switch,
then close by a man’s voice whispered peremptorily:
“_Touche pas la lumière. J’apporte une bougie, moi…_”
At the same moment there was a scratch of a match, followed by a
dazzling glare, and in the light of a candle-end sheltered by a broad
palm, two dark figures emerged from obscurity. The smaller of them
came near on tiptoe, bent down and peered into her face.
It was Jeanne. Behind her rose the shadowy mass of the Portuguese, his
bloodshot eyes gleaming in the candlelight. Both servants wore coats
and hats, and the woman carried a bundle under her arm. Her hands were
bandaged.
For a second Catherine stared back at her with fascinated eyes. Again
she tried to scream, her voice ending in a gurgle.
Eduardo spoke in an undertone:
“She has come to herself, then? That is good. Now! Be quick about it.
Do you need any help?”
“No. Better keep watch at the outer door.”
“Well, sharp work then. Here’s the knife.…”
They were going to kill her outright! She cowered away with a
suddenness which sent her toppling.
“None of that!” commanded the woman’s voice sibilantly.
At the same time she felt herself rudely grasped and thrown upon her
back. The sallow face leaned over her, the eyes boring into hers.
“You can hear, I suppose? Well, then, listen carefully. You are to
obey me, everything I say--and if you make one sound you will find
this between your ribs!”
At the word “this” a sharp point pressed into her side. The yellow
light shone upon the polished blade of a long carving-knife, clutched
in murderous fingers.
“_C’est entendu, n’est-ce pas?_”
Although the girl could make no sign, her jailer was apparently
satisfied. She withdrew the weapon, bent over the prisoner’s feet, and
with a quick ripping noise severed the strips confining the helpless
ankles. Next she dragged her body into an upright position, slid it to
the edge of the bed so that the feet touched the floor, and unrolling
the bundle, which proved to be Catherine’s tweed coat, produced a
package of medical gauze.
What was this for? The victim was not long in doubt. Even as she asked
herself the question swift, expert fingers began to wrap her face and
head in bandages, covering the gag and leaving nothing free save nose
and eyes. She was swathed like a cocoon in surgical wrappings,
fastened here and there with safety-pins. A dive behind her back, and
with a spasm of unbearable pain she felt her hat thrust upon her head,
pulled well down to hide the upper part of her face. For a second she
swayed, the candle was blotted out, and she grazed the borders of
unconsciousness.
When she recovered it was to hear the words brusquely uttered: “You
are able to walk, I hope? Stand on your feet.…”
She was lifted bodily, an arm steadying her to prevent her falling.
When the darkness cleared, she was aware that her coat had been thrown
round her shoulders, dangling loose over her bound arms. The woman was
saying with hard emphasis, driving home her meaning:
“You have got to walk as far as the car. You will be able to manage.
Stay where you are--there is a chair beside you to lean against.”
By the smoking flame of the candle, stuck on a chest of drawers, she
could see the maid busy herself rapidly with the disordered bed,
smoothing down the red damask cover and wadding the blood-stained
towel and linen strips into a ball, which she placed in her coat
pocket. Hardly had she finished when Eduardo reappeared in the
doorway, his distorted shadow rising behind him.
“Ready? She can stand upright?” he whispered.
“With us to help her.”
The ironic laugh accompanying the reply sent a chill down the girl’s
spine.
“Well, then”--impatiently--“what are you waiting for?”
Catherine, too, sensed an ominous pause which at first she did not
understand. Then she felt her left hand grasped from underneath her
coat and pulled as far as it would go towards the flaring candle,
while the woman stooped over it, her breath audible through compressed
nostrils. Simultaneously the Portuguese moved a step closer.
“Ah, that! It is a good stone, too. A pity to let it go.”
Then Catherine knew that Jeanne was examining her ruby ring.
Another pause.
“Suppose I take it off her. He will never know.…”
“No, but the police will, when they fish her up. It’s suicide,
remember, not robbery. A little thing like that might make all the
difference.…”
A sigh, charged with baffled cupidity, then her hand was released.
When they fished her up! Now, with sickening certainty, she knew what
her end was going to be.
With a strong smell of smouldering wick the candle was put out. She
felt herself seized on both sides and hurried across a second room,
along a tiled hall-way, and thence to a lighted landing where a lift
waited. The door was shut behind them.
“Better leave the key in the lock,” muttered Jeanne. “The old fool
will think he left it there. Have you got the bags?”
“Here, beside you. Look sharp now--in with her.”
She was pushed roughly into the lift while a bag and hat-box she
recognized for her own were jammed alongside of her. Evidently no
trace was to be left. Her captors followed, the metal doors closed
with a click, and the cage sank, slowly, past three landings to the
ground floor. As it came to rest, a final ray of hope shot through the
speechless girl. It could not be very late. Perhaps the concierge
might see her and question her identity. She must be on the alert to
attract his attention.
Then, as if in answer to her unspoken thought, Jeanne bent towards
her, hissing in her ear, “You have not forgotten what I showed you
just now? One attempt to escape and you will feel it! I have it ready
in my sleeve.”
The following instant she was supported down a flight of shallow steps
into a court, which had a tiny garden in the centre, bordered with
hyacinths, pale in the moonlight. No one was in sight, but above, on
the first floor, the casements were open, and through them issued
laughter and the babble of clamorous voices. A party was in progress.
Someone struck a few chords of a popular song on a piano and began to
sing, only to be silenced by a feminine voice raised in mock
annoyance, shrilling the words, “_Qui a versé la Benedictine sur ma
broderie Perse? Cochon, va!_”
As she was led forward on tottering feet she glanced desperately
towards the loge. Now she was abreast of the lighted window, through
which she could see every detail of the room within--the stickily
bright, machine-carved dresser, the blue cover on the table, the clock
upon the wall, and beside it a lurid oleograph of Maréchal Foch. She
was past it in a second, but not before her eager eye had taken in the
rear view of two seated figures, one that of a little elderly man
whose head was encircled by a half-hoop of steel terminating in
head-phones pressed tightly against his ears. In that instant hope
perished. The concierge, a devotee to the _sans fils_, was dead to the
outer world, intent upon his evening’s enjoyment.
Now they were in the street crossing the familiar avenue of chestnuts.
As they set foot on the opposite pavement a man in evening dress
brushed by them, casting a curious glance at Catherine’s bandaged
face. With all her strength she tried to move in his direction, only
to find the grip on her arms tightened and to feel a sharp prod in her
side. At the same time Jeanne’s voice spoke soothingly, but loud
enough for the passer to hear:
“Courage, madame! Only one little step farther. Lean on me.”
Crushed by despair, the prisoner felt her legs give beneath her, but
she was borne up strongly and propelled with haste to an adjacent
turning, where in the shelter of overhanging trees stood an empty car.
Almost before she could grasp what was happening, she found herself
upon the deep seat inside, with Jeanne whispering in a tone of
triumph:
“There, mademoiselle, that was neatly done, I think!”
A few seconds passed, while Eduardo placed the bag and hat-box on the
floor at their feet and climbed into the driver’s place. The engine
started, but they did not move. Instead, in the darkness, Catherine
felt rather than saw the two servants straining round to look behind
them, their attitude full of alert expectancy.
From out the gloom rapid steps sounded, coming towards the car. The
girl’s heart gave a wild leap. Someone was approaching, a possible
rescuer, perhaps. Oh! if only she could scream, or at least make some
sign to attract attention! With a mad effort she threw herself
forward, her head colliding with the glass in front. Immediately she
was violently seized and thrust back again.
“Ah, you would, would you?” There was a smothered imprecation.
The next instant the door at her side was flung open and a man, out of
breath from hurrying, got in. There was just sufficient light to
discern a dead-white face close to hers beneath the brim of a wide
hat, and two eyes fixed upon her with a cold, unwinking stare.
She shuddered with sudden nausea. They were the eyes of Adolph Blom.
Simultaneously the car lurched forward. They were off.