THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT.
"I've got those maps you wanted," I remarked as Bryce opened the door,
"and I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long."
"You haven't," he said with a smile. "As a matter-of-fact I've been
otherwise occupied. I've had a visitor."
"A visitor?" I said guardedly, though what on earth there was to guard
against was more than I could have said just then. Some cross-grained
streak in my nature made me both cantankerous and suspicious, and while
the mood was on me I would have contradicted or queried the word of an
archangel.
"Yes," Bryce replied. "The lady you met in the passage. I gather that
she knows you."
"We knew each other years ago," I said shortly. In a flash the meaning
of the conversation I had overheard burst on me. I began to perceive
that her presence in the house was due in part at least to me. Well, if
he fancied he was going to patch up our old love affair he had
undertaken a bigger job than he thought. For two pins I would have told
him, had he uttered another word, that there was one matter in which I
would brook no man's interference, and that even the ties that bound him
to my father were not strong enough to allow him to settle what was
nobody's affair but mine. But, with even greater tact than I believed he
possessed, he switched the conversation on to quite another subject and
talked to me for the better part of half-an-hour about the maps I had
brought.
He had the formation of the country and its industries at his fingers'
ends, and he spoke like a man who had gained his information at
first-hand. I listened attentively, for I guessed in some queer fashion
of my own that the maps and that foolish cryptogram, the shooting on the
beach and the piece of driftwood were all somehow connected. But either
I must have missed some very obvious point or else he picked his words
so carefully that he misled me.
I used my eyes for all they were worth, which wasn't much. The
typewriter stood on the table in its old position, and the table itself
was littered with sheets of typed figures. "More timber measurements," I
said to myself. Somehow the sight of those sheets troubled me. They were
innocent-looking enough in all conscience, and I couldn't for the life
of me understand why they should have this peculiar effect on me. I felt
as if a cold gust of wind, the icy breath of Death himself, had passed
and touched me in the passing. I flatter myself that I have pretty
strong nerves--the Lord knows they've been tested often enough--but
there was something in the atmosphere of that room, something in the
sight of those littered sheets of paper, that sent a cold shiver through
me, that made me want to rush from the place into the golden sunshine
out of doors. It was a presentiment, but one that could not be
localised. It did not appear to be one that could be shared either, for
Bryce still talked on in his own quaint way, apparently unaffected by
the strange influence which so troubled me.
At last he rose and proceeded to gather up the disordered papers on the
table. I rose too, and with a careless "So long," was making for the
door when he stopped me with a question.
"I suppose," he asked, "that you haven't seen anything lately of our
inquisitive friends?"
"The Roman sentry and the gentleman with the hardware and the smashed
wrist?" I answered his question with one of mine.
He smiled at my description and the laughter-lines about his mouth
creased into a myriad wrinkles. "You have them exactly," he remarked.
"No, I haven't seen them," I said. "They seem to have disappeared into
nothingness."
Curiously enough the news, instead of pleasing, seemed to disappoint
him. "They evidently mean business," he said in a semi-undertone. It
seemed almost as if he was speaking his thoughts out aloud.
He glanced up at me with brooding eyes and brows drawn close together.
"We'll hear from them presently," he murmured, "and then the end won't
be far away."
"Cheer up," I said hastily, "They've got a long way to go yet, and I
don't think they'll find me altogether pleasant to deal with."
"If you knew all about it," he said, and then he hesitated. For just the
fraction of a second he trembled on the point of divulging everything,
and then his old cautiousness re-asserted itself and the impulse died
away.
"That'll be all," he said briskly. "Just keep your eyes and your ears
open, Jim, and, as you say, we'll beat them yet."
But I rather fancied from his tone that he meant that last sentence the
other way about.
* * * * *
I came awake instantly. The noise that had awakened me still echoed in
my ears and, though I could not put a name to it, I could have sworn
that it came from the room where Bryce did his typing. It was a very
faint noise, not the kind to bring a heavy sleeper instantly awake. But
my nerves work like a hair-trigger, and the almost noiseless pad of a
cat across the room at night is sufficient to rouse me. What I had heard
had been so faint that a less matter-of-fact man might have imagined
that he had dreamt it. But I knew better. I don't dream.
The obvious thing was to slip out of bed at once and investigate. I
didn't. I knew a trick worth two of that. I sat up and listened. It
might be a wandering tabby that had blundered into a piece of furniture;
perhaps the window had creaked; it might be any one of half a hundred
things. If there was an intruder in the house I felt certain that
presently I would hear something more. No man, no matter how careful he
be, can move with a complete absence of sound.
Five minutes passed, ten, a quarter of an hour. Nothing happened. And
then, just as I was beginning to despair, I heard it again. It was a
little plainer this time. Somebody had scraped a chair across the floor
and it had creaked slightly.
That was more than enough for me. I slipped out of bed, but I did not
hurry. Many a man with the prize almost within his grasp has lost it
simply because he has rushed at it with his eyes shut. I didn't dawdle,
but I said to myself, "The more haste the less speed, Jim," and
accordingly I took my time. Of course if I had fancied that there was
one chance in a hundred of the man getting away, I would have been on
the spot like a shot, but I guessed from what I had heard that the
visitor was in no hurry, and certainly hadn't the faintest suspicion
that anyone in the house was aware of his presence. I got my clothes on
somehow and took a grip of my long Colt by the barrel end. I didn't want
to shoot unless there was no other way out of it, and anyway a
revolver-shot kicks up such an infernal racket inside a house and brings
on the scene quite a number of people who'd be better at home and in
bed.
I slunk down the passage like a shadow, walking as if I were treading on
eggs. Very softly I tried the door. To my disgust it was locked. Now the
only time Bryce ever locked it was when he was at work inside, so I knew
that my man was still within reach. As if to make assurance doubly sure
I caught, as I stepped back, the faint gleam of a pencil of light from
under the doorway.
The position as I summed it up was this:--The intruder had entered
through the door and had quietly locked it behind him. That would have
been the first noise I had heard. Then he had hunted about for whatever
he wanted and, once it had been found, he had drawn the chair up to the
table and settled down to a prolonged study of the matter. That would
explain the two sounds. Now as my man had come in through the door he
was almost certain to go out the same way and, in the interests of peace
and quiet, the proper course to take was to sit down and wait until he
decided to come out.
I can't say how long I waited there. It seemed like hours, but of course
at the outside it could not have been many minutes. I would dearly have
liked to smoke, but I rather fancied that the other man's nose would be
sure to scent me out. Also a scrape of a match in a still house at the
dead of night sounds like a bomb-explosion. So I just squatted down on
my heels and cursed my man under my breath. I was in deadly fear most of
the time that he would make a noise of some kind and bring the other
inhabitants down about my ears. He was my meat, and I meant to eat him
myself.
At length the pencil of light went out. Somebody moved stealthily across
the room and the key turned softly in the lock. I balanced the gun in my
hand and got ready to swing. It was pitch-dark in the hall and I could
not see an inch in front of me, but I had my fingers right up against
the jamb of the door and I could feel it opening. The man was breathing
with a barely perceptible wheeze and, if I had not been listening for
something of the kind, I might have missed it altogether. But it was
quite loud enough for me to position the fellow, and the next instant I
flopped out of the darkness on to him. He gave a surprised little gasp,
a sort of sizzling like the air escaping out of a punctured tyre, and
went down on the mat underneath me. I had taken him so completely off
his guard that there was no need for me to use my gun. I got one hand on
his throat in the most approved style of the garrotte and just pressed.
He wriggled a little at first, but I kept up the same even pressure, and
presently he went limp. I knew then that he was harmless for the next
ten minutes, so I released my hold, slipped my useless Colt into my
pocket, and made to stand up. But at that precise moment the electric
light in the hall went on, and a silvery voice said, "Hands up, please!"
In the astonishment of the moment I shot my hands heavenwards and turned
round to view the new arrival. It was just as I thought. Moira had
blundered into my little surprise party, and she was doing her level
best to annex all the honors for herself. She was standing with one hand
on the light switch and the other held Bryce's automatic. Her face was
very pale, and the hand that held the revolver wasn't quite as steady as
I could have wished. She blinked a little at me--her eyes seemed blinded
by the sudden radiance--and I don't think she recognised me for the
moment, so much do one's ordinary clothes make the man.
It was clearly up to me to disillusion her and persuade her either to
put down the revolver or hold it in a way less calculated to alarm the
peaceful public.
"You'd better put down that infernal thing, Moira," I said calmly, "or
you'll be doing someone damage. The mere sight of you makes me nervous,
Diana."
There was a studied insult in the last word, but I think somehow she
must have missed it in the excitement of the moment, for she lowered her
gun and ran towards me.
"Oh, it's you!" she cried surprisedly.
"It's me," I said dourly, and I dropped my hands into a more convenient
position. "In fact it's so much me that I'd be obliged if you'd keep
quiet for a while and help me look after this gentleman on the floor. I
want to examine him, and I don't think I'll be able to do it in comfort
if you wake the rest of the family."
"Who is he?" she asked, showing by the subdued note of her voice that
she had taken my warning to heart.
"That's more than I can say," I answered. "I discovered him in the room
there, and when he came out I promptly sat on him."
"But what did he want?"
"If one can judge anything from his present attitude, he came to study
the pattern of the carpet, Moira."
"Be serious, Jim, please."
"I couldn't if I tried," I said, rising to my feet. "It's too much like
hard work. But let's look at the captive, Diana."
This time the shot went home, and in a way I was glad. I had four years'
arrears to make up yet. It was not a very manly thing to do, I know--it
certainly wasn't at all gentlemanly--but it gave me a deuce of a lot of
satisfaction, and that's about all I can say in defence. She looked up
at me with both hurt and contempt in her eyes, but I was far too
engrossed in the business in hand to give her more than passing notice.
When I came to think it over in calmer moments I realised that, despite
all that had happened, the girl was just as much in love with me as ever
she had been.
The fellow was young, at the most he could not have been more than
twenty-four or five, and I saw instantly that he was the man I had
called the Roman sentry--the chap who had been spying on the house the
day Bryce had driven me home from the Heads. The life wasn't crushed out
of him by any means; even as I examined him he stirred a little and his
eyes opened. They were nice black eyes, the sort that brim over with
humor, yet way at the back of them I caught a glimpse of something else.
It was a queer mixture of anger and determination, and I saw just
sufficient of it to warn me to take no unnecessary risks. Save for that
first spasmodic movement he lay perfectly still, those black eyes of his
laughing up at me and challenging. Somehow they filled me with a curious
sense of unrest, a feeling as if everything that made life safe and
secure was slipping away from me. I did not speak a word, however, but
gave him back look for look, striving with my eyes to beat down the
challenge I read in his. They said as plainly as so many words, "I'm the
better man, and I'll beat you yet. Try and see if I don't."
"What are you doing here?" I demanded at length, seeing that one of us
must speak, and he seemed the less likely.
"If I told you I was a somnambulist you wouldn't believe me, would you?"
he replied.
"I wouldn't," I said tersely.
"I'm not, anyway," he continued, with those infernally self-possessed
eyes daring me ... daring me what?
"You've got to explain what you were doing in that room," I threatened.
"The sooner you tell me the better it'll be for you."
"It's no use talking like that, my friend," he said. "You won't get a
word more out of me than I wish, and while I think of it you'd better
call in the police at once and have done with it."
It was the first time that the idea of the police had occurred to me,
and, now I came to think of it, it wasn't too acceptable. Without
knowing much about it, I surmised that the less Bryce had to do with the
police the better he'd be pleased, that is if I could base anything on
the way he had behaved that morning on the beach. As it was Moira seemed
to have much the same idea as myself, or perhaps she spoke from superior
knowledge.
"Don't call the police in, Jim," she said in a quick whisper. "You
mustn't do that. It'd be better to let him go."
I shook my head. "I don't want to let him go," I said, "but if you don't
want to make an example of him, I don't see what else there is for it.
I'll have a word with him first, at any rate, and see what I can make
out of him."
"Be careful, Jim," she whispered, all the strain and anger occasioned by
my ill-timed insult disappearing in her anxiety for my welfare.
I ignored her admonition, more because I could think of no suitable
reply than for any other reason, and addressed myself to the captive.
"Get up," I said. "You and I are going to have a little heart-to-heart
talk."
He made no effort to rise, so I leaned over and hauled him up by the
collar. By the feel of him he was some forty pounds lighter than I, and
I made a mental note of that in case we had a scrimmage on the way.
Weight counts a good deal in a rough-and-tumble. I got a good neck-hold
on him, and then I turned to Moira. "You'd better get back to bed and
forget," I said. "I'll deal with this smart Alec here."
I did not wait to see if she took my advice, but I prodded my captive
with my free hand. "Jog along, Eliza," I said. "Straight down the hall,
and don't try any monkey tricks."
He went quietly enough; if I had had my wits about me I would have had
my suspicions aroused by that same fact. I was flushed with victory,
and, what was even more pleasant, I was acting to an impressionable
audience. I was sure that Moira could not fail to appreciate the
neatness with which I had conducted the whole affair, and, though I kept
telling myself that I did not care a hang for her, I hadn't the faintest
objection to showing off before her. On the contrary. That, in part at
least, was the cause of my undoing.
The hall ended in a big French window that opened out on to the back
verandah. It was very seldom used, indeed I had never seen it opened,
but there it was with glass all the way to the floor. When I marched my
prisoner down the hall I had some vague idea of taking him out on to the
verandah and inducing him to tell me what he had come for. But the man
had other plans maturing, and when we were just about six or seven feet
away from the window he gave a little twist and a wriggle and slipped
out of my hands as if he had been an eel. Then, before I had quite
recovered sufficiently to make a grab at the empty air, he hurled
himself against the window. It was one of those foolhardy things that
succeed just because of the sheer, daring recklessness of the man who
carries them through. He swept through the glass with a splintering
crash that must have been audible for half-a-block away, and then, while
the falling pieces still tinkled on the floor, he placed his hand on the
verandah rail and vaulted to the ground. I drew my revolver at once--I
had been pulling it out of my pocket even as I ran down the hall--and
took a flying shot at him. But in the hurry of the moment I missed, and
I padded out on to the verandah through the splintered window just in
time to see him scaling the back fence with the practised ease of the
family tabby.
I did not attempt to follow him. I knew the uselessness of such a
proceeding. Just for the fraction of a second his hurrying silhouette
had shown on the top of the fence, and then it had melted into the
surrounding shadows of the dawn with a silence and celerity which, more
than anything else, told me how difficult it would be to trace him.
I turned on my heel, only to find that the lights were blazing up in
practically every room, and Moira, Bryce and the servants were gathered
in a huddled, indecisive group just inside the window. Most of them
looked startled. Bryce had been a little shaken, but his self-possession
was rapidly returning. Moira, indeed, was the only one who faced me with
anything like calmness in her face.
"You'd better all get back to bed," I said, seeing that someone had to
take the initiative. "It's nothing very much, nothing to worry you at
any rate."
"Yes, you'd better go back," Bryce said, seconding my remarks. "There's
nothing doing."
The servants moved away one by one, leaving the three of us together.
For quite a minute Bryce eyed the revolver that I still held in my hand,
then his glance travelled to the shattered window, and, completing the
circle, came to rest on me again.
"Well?" he queried, with intense interest in his voice. I knew what that
monosyllable meant. It was a request for a detailed account of the
events of that night. Seeing that there was nothing to be gained by
withholding anything, I plunged into the tale and related everything
just as it had happened.
"So he got away from you?" he remarked when I had finished.
"He did," I said emphatically.
"That's about the best thing he could have done," Bryce ran on. "I don't
know what we could have done with him if we had kept him."
"'He who fights and runs away will live to fight another day,'" I
reminded him.
"That other day is a matter for the future," he answered. "We'd better
see what he took though. Come on."
He turned on his heel and led the way to his study just as the first
rays of the rising sun crept up over the distant hills.