Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE CRIMSON BLIND
By FRED. M. WHITE
1905
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. "WHO SPEAKS?"
II. THE CRIMSON BLIND
III. THE VOICE IN THE DARKNESS
IV. IN EXTREMIS
V. "RECEIVED WITH THANKS"
VI. A POLICY OF SILENCE
VII. No. 218, BRUNSWICK SQUARE
VIII. HATHERLY BELL
IX. THE BROKEN FIGURE
X. THE HOUSE OF THE SILENT SORROW
XI. AFTER REMBRANDT
XII. "THE CRIMSON BLIND"
XIII. "GOOD DOG!"
XIV. BEHIND THE BLIND
XV. A MEDICAL OPINION
XVI. MARGARET SEES A GHOST
XVII. THE PACE SLACKENS
XVIII. A COMMON ENEMY
XIX. ROLLO SHOWS HIS TEETH
XX. FRANK LITTIMER
XXI. A FIND
XXII. "THE LIGHT THAT FAILED"
XXIII. INDISCRETION
XXIV. ENID LEARNS SOMETHING
XXV. LITTIMER CASTLE
XXIV. AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
XXVII. SLIGHTLY FARCICAL
XXVIII. A SQUIRE OF DAMES
XXIX. THE MAN WITH THE THUMB AGAIN
XXX. GONE!
XXXI. BELL ARRIVES
XXXII. HOW THE SCHEME WORKED OUT
XXXIII. THE FRAME OF THE PICTURE
XXXIV. THE PUZZLING OF HENSON
XXXV. CHRIS HAS AN IDEA
XXXVL. A BRILLIANT IDEA
XXXVII. ANOTHER TELEPHONIC MESSAGE
XXXVIII. A LITTLE FICTION
XXXIX. THE FASCINATION OF JAMES MERRITT
XL. A USEFUL DISCOVERY
XLI. A DELICATE ERRAND
XLII. PRINCE RUPERT'S RING
XLIII. NEARING THE TRUTH
XLIV. ENID SPEAKS
XLV. ON THE TRAIL
XLVI. LITTIMER'S EYES ARE OPENED
XLVII. THE TRACK BROADENS
XLVIII. WHERE IS RAWLINS?
XLIX. A CHEVALIER OF FORTUNE
L. RAWLINS IS CANDID
LI. HERITAGE IS WILLING
LII. PUTTING THE LIGHT OUT
LIII. UNSEALED LIPS
LIV. WHERE IS THE RING?
LV. KICKED OUT
LVI. WHITE FANGS
LVII. HIDE AND SEEK
THE CRIMSON BLIND.
CHAPTER I
"WHO SPEAKS?"
David Steel dropped his eyes from the mirror and shuddered as a man who
sees his own soul bared for the first time. And yet the mirror was in
itself a thing of artistic beauty--engraved Florentine glass in a frame
of deep old Flemish oak. The novelist had purchased it in Bruges, and now
it stood as a joy and a thing of beauty against the full red wall over
the fireplace. And Steel had glanced at himself therein and seen murder
in his eyes.
He dropped into a chair with a groan for his own helplessness. Men have
done that kind of thing before when the cartridges are all gone and the
bayonets are twisted and broken and the brown waves of the foe come
snarling over the breastworks. And then they die doggedly with the stones
in their hands, and cursing the tardy supports that brought this black
shame upon them.
But Steel's was ruin of another kind. The man was a fighter to his
finger-tips. He had dogged determination and splendid physical courage;
he had gradually thrust his way into the front rank of living novelists,
though the taste of poverty was still bitter in his mouth. And how good
success was now that it had come!
People envied him. Well, that was all in the sweets of the victory. They
praised his blue china, they lingered before his Oriental dishes and the
choice pictures on the panelled walls. The whole thing was still a
constant pleasure to Steel's artistic mind. The dark walls, the old oak
and silver, the red shades, and the high artistic fittings soothed him
and pleased him, and played upon his tender imagination. And behind there
was a study, filled with books and engravings, and beyond that again a
conservatory, filled with the choicest blossoms. Steel could work with
the passion flowers above his head and the tender grace of the tropical
ferns about him, and he could reach his left hand for his telephone and
call Fleet Street to his ear.
It was all unique, delightful, the dream of an artistic soul realised.
Three years before David Steel had worked in an attic at a bare deal
table, and his mother had £3 per week to pay for everything. Usually
there was balm in this recollection.
But not to-night, Heaven help him, not to-night! Little grinning demons
were dancing on the oak cornices, there were mocking lights gleaming from
Cellini tankards that Steel had given far too much money for. It had not
seemed to matter just at the time. If all this artistic beauty had
emptied Steel's purse there was a golden stream coming. What mattered it
that the local tradesmen were getting a little restless? The great
expense of the novelist's life was past. In two years he would be rich.
And the pathos of the thing was not lessened by the fact that it was
true. In two years' time Steel would be well off. He was terribly short
of ready money, but he had just finished a serial story for which he was
to be paid £500 within two months of the delivery of the copy; two novels
of his were respectively in their fourth and fifth editions. But these
novels of his he had more or less given away, and he ground his teeth as
he thought of it. Still, everything spelt prosperity. If he lived, David
Steel was bound to become a rich man.
And yet he was ruined. Within twenty-four hours everything would pass out
of his hands. To all practical purposes it had done so already. And all
for the want of £1,000! Steel had earned twice that amount during the
past twelve months, and the fruits of his labour were as balm to his soul
about him. Within the next twelve months he could pay the debt three
times over. He would cheerfully have taken the bill and doubled the
amount for six months' delay.
And all this because he had become surety for an absconding brother.
Steel had put his pride in his pocket and interviewed his creditor, a
little, polite, mild-eyed financier, who meant to have his money to the
uttermost farthing. At first he had been suave and sympathetic, until he
had discovered that Steel had debts elsewhere, and then--
Well, he had signed judgment, and to-morrow he could levy execution.
Within a few hours the bottom would fall out of the universe so far as
Steel was concerned. Within a few hours every butcher and baker and
candle-stick-maker would come abusively for his bill. Steel, who could
have faced a regiment, recoiled fearfully from that. Within a week his
oak and silver would have to be sold and the passion flower would wither
on the walls.
Steel had not told anybody yet; the strong man had grappled with his
trouble alone. Had he been a man of business he might have found some way
out of the difficulty. Even his mother didn't know. She was asleep
upstairs, perhaps dreaming of her son's greatness. What would the dear
old mater say when she knew? Well, she had been a good mother to him, and
it had been a labour of love to furnish the house for her as for himself.
Perhaps there would be a few tears in those gentle eyes, but no more.
Thank God, no reproaches there.
David lighted a cigarette and paced restlessly round the dining-room.
Never had he appreciated its quiet beauty more than he did now. There
were flowers, blood-red flowers, on the table under the graceful electric
stand that Steel had designed himself. He snapped off the light as if the
sight pained him, and strode into his study. For a time he stood moodily
gazing at his flowers and ferns. How every leaf there was pregnant with
association. There was the Moorish clock droning the midnight hour. When
Steel had brought that clock--
"Ting, ting, ting. Pring, pring, ping, pring. Ting, ting, ting, ting."
But Steel heard nothing. Everything seemed as silent as the grave. It was
only by a kind of inner consciousness that he knew the hour to be
midnight. Midnight meant the coming of the last day. After sunrise some
greasy lounger pregnant of cheap tobacco would come in and assume that he
represented the sheriff, bills would be hung like banners on the outward
walls, and then.--
"Pring, pring, pring. Ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting.
Pring, pring, pring."
Bells, somewhere. Like the bells in the valley where the old vicarage
used to stand. Steel vaguely wondered who now lived in the house where he
was born. He was staring in the most absent way at his telephone, utterly
unconscious of the shrill impatience of the little voice. He saw the
quick pulsation of the striker and he came back to earth again.
Jefferies of the _Weekly Messenger_, of course. Jefferies was fond of a
late chat on the telephone. Steel wondered grimly, if Jefferies would
lend him £1,000. He flung himself down in a deep lounge-chair and placed
the receiver to his ear. By the deep, hoarse clang of the wires, a
long-distance message, assuredly.
"From London, evidently. Halloa, London! Are you there?"
London responded that it was. A clear, soft voice spoke at length.
"Is that you, Mr. Steel? Are you quite alone? Under the circumstances you
are not busy to-night?"
Steel started. He had never heard the voice before. It was clear and
soft and commanding, and yet there was just a suspicion of mocking
irony in it.
"I'm not very busy to-night," Steel replied. "Who is speaking to me?"
"That for the present we need not go into," said the mocking voice. "As
certain old-fashioned contemporaries of yours would say, 'We meet as
strangers!' Stranger yet, you are quite alone!"
"I am quite alone. Indeed, I am the only one up in the house."
"Good. I have told the exchange people not to ring off till I have
finished with you. One advantage of telephoning at this hour is that one
is tolerably free from interruption. So your mother is asleep? Have you
told her what is likely to happen to you before many hours have elapsed?"
Steel made no reply for a moment. He was restless and ill at ease
to-night, and it seemed just possible that his imagination was playing
him strange tricks. But, no. The Moorish clock in its frame of
celebrities droned the quarter after twelve; the scent of the Dijon roses
floated in from the conservatory.
"I have told nobody as yet," Steel said, hoarsely. "Who in the name of
Heaven are you?"
"That in good time. But I did not think you were a coward."
"No man has ever told me so--face to face."
"Good again. I recognise the fighting ring in your voice. If you lack
certain phases of moral courage, you are a man of pluck and resource.
Now, somebody who is very dear to me is at present in Brighton, not
very far from your own house. She is in dire need of assistance. You
also are in dire need of assistance. We can be of mutual advantage to
one another."
"What do you mean by that?" Steel whispered.
"Let me put the matter on a business footing. I want you to help my
friend, and in return I will help you. Bear in mind that I am asking you
to do nothing wrong. If you will promise me to go to a certain address in
Brighton to night and see my friend, I promise that before you sleep the
sum of £1,000 in Bank of England notes shall be in your possession."
No reply came from Steel. He could not have spoken at that moment for the
fee-simple of Golconda. He could only hang gasping to the telephone. Many
a strange and weird plot came and went in that versatile brain, but never
one more wild than this. Apparently no reply was expected, for the
speaker resumed:--
"I am asking you to do no wrong. You may naturally desire to know why my
friend does not come to you. That must remain my secret, our secret. We
are trusting you because we know you to be a gentleman, but we have
enemies who are ever on the watch. All you have to do is to go to a
certain place and give a certain woman information. You are thinking that
this is a strange mystery. Never was anything stranger dreamt of in your
philosophy. Are you agreeable?"
The mocking tone died out of the small, clear voice until it was
almost pleading.
"You have taken me at a disadvantage," Steel said. "And you know--"
"Everything. I am trying to save you from ruin. Fortune has played you
into my hands. I am perfectly aware that if you were not on the verge of
social extinction you would refuse my request. It is in your hands to
decide. You know that Beckstein, your creditor, is absolutely merciless.
He will get his money back and more besides. This is his idea of
business. To-morrow you will be an outcast--for the time, at any rate.
Your local creditors will be insolent to you; people will pity you or
blame you, as their disposition lies. On the other hand, you have but to
say the word and you are saved. You can go and see the Brighton
representatives of Beckstein's lawyers, and pay them in paper of the Bank
of England."
"If I was assured of your bona-fides," Steel murmured.
A queer little laugh, a laugh of triumph, came over the wires.
"I have anticipated that question. Have you Greenwich time about you?"
Steel responded that he had. It was five-and-twenty minutes past twelve.
He had quite ceased to wonder at any questions put to him now. It was all
so like one of his brilliant little extravanganzas.
"You can hang up your receiver for five minutes," the voice said.
"Precisely at half-past twelve you go and look on your front doorstep.
Then come back and tell me what you have found. You need not fear that I
shall go away."
Steel hung up the receiver, feeling that he needed a little rest. His
cigarette was actually scorching his left thumb and forefinger, but he
was heedless of the fact. He flicked up the dining-room lights again and
rapidly made himself a sparklet soda, which he added to a small whisky.
He looked almost lovingly at the gleaming Cellini tankard, at the pools
of light on the fair damask. Was it possible that he was not going to
lose all this, after all?
The Moorish clock in the study droned the half-hour.
David gulped down his whisky and crept shakily to the front door with a
feeling on him that he was doing something stealthily. The bolts and
chain rattled under his trembling fingers. Outside, the whole world
seemed to be sleeping. Under the wide canopy of stars some black object
picked out with shining points lay on the white marble breadth of the top
step. A gun-metal cigar-case set in tiny diamonds.
The novelist fastened the front door and staggered to the study. A
pretty, artistic thing such as David had fully intended to purchase for
himself. He had seen one exactly like it in a jeweller's window in North
Street. He had pointed it out to his mother. Why, it was the very one! No
doubt whatever about it! David had had the case in his hands and had
reluctantly declined the purchase.
He pressed the spring, and the case lay open before him. Inside were
papers, soft, crackling papers; the case was crammed with them. They were
white and clean, and twenty-five of them in all. Twenty-five Bank of
England notes for £10 each--£250!
David fought the dreamy feeling off and took down the telephone receiver.
"Are you there?" he whispered, as if fearful of listeners. "I--I have
found your parcel."
"Containing the notes. So far so good. Yes, you are right, it is the
same cigar-case you admired so much in Lockhart's the other day. Well,
we have given you an instance of our bona-fides. But £250 is of no use
to you at present. Beckstein's people would not accept it on
account--they can make far more money by 'selling you up,' as the poetic
phrase goes. It is in your hands to procure the other £750 before you
sleep. You can take it as a gift, or, if you are too proud for that, you
may regard it as a loan. In which case you can bestow the money on such
charities as commend themselves to you. Now, are you going to place
yourself entirely in my hands?"
Steel hesitated no longer. Under the circumstances few men would, as he
had a definite assurance that there was nothing dishonourable to be
done. A little courage, a little danger, perhaps, and he could hold up
his head before the world; he could return to his desk to-morrow with
the passion flowers over his head and the scent groves sweet to his
nostrils. And the mater could dream happily, for there would be no
sadness or sorrow in the morning.
"I will do exactly what you tell me," he said.
"Spoken like a man," the voice cried. "Nobody will know you have left
the house--you can be home in an hour. You will not be missed. Come, time
is getting short, and I have my risks as well as others. Go at once to
Old Steine. Stand on the path close under the shadow of the statue of
George IV. and wait there. Somebody will say 'Come,' and you will follow.
Goodnight."
Steel would have said more, but the tinkle of his own bell told him that
the stranger had rung off. He laid his cigar-case on the writing-table,
slipped his cigarette-case into his pocket, satisfied himself that he had
his latch-key, and put on a dark overcoat. Overhead the dear old mater
was sleeping peacefully. He closed the front door carefully behind him
and strode resolutely into the darkness.