THE CRIMSON BLIND
David walked swiftly along, his mind in a perfect whirl. Now that once he
had started he was eager to see the adventure through. It was strange,
but stranger things had happened. More than one correspondent with queer
personal experiences had taught him that. Nor was Steel in the least
afraid. He was horribly frightened of disgrace or humiliation, but
physical courage he had in a high degree. And was he not going to save
his home and his good name?
David had not the least doubt on the latter score. Of course he would
do nothing wrong, neither would he keep the money. This he preferred
to regard as a loan--a loan to be paid off before long. At any rate,
money or no money, he would have been sorry to have abandoned the
adventure now.
His spirits rose as he walked along, a great weight had fallen from his
shoulders. He smiled as he thought of his mother peacefully sleeping at
home. What would his mother think if she knew? But, then, nobody was to
know. That had been expressly settled in the bond.
Save for an occasional policeman the streets were deserted. It was a
little cold and raw for the time of year, and a fog like a pink blanket
was creeping in from the sea. Down in the Steine the big arc-lights
gleamed here and there like nebulous blue globes; it was hardly possible
to see across the road. In the half-shadow behind Steel the statue of the
First Gentleman in Europe glowed gigantic, ghost-like in the mist.
It was marvellously still there, so still that David could hear the
tinkle of the pebbles on the beach. He stood back by the gate of the
gardens watching the play of the leaf silhouettes on the pavement,
quaint patterns of fantastic designs thrown up in high relief by the
arc-light above. From the dark foggy throat of St. James's Street came
the tinkle of a cycle bell. On so still a night the noise seemed bizarre
and out of place. Then the cycle loomed in sight; the rider, muffled and
humped over the front wheel, might have been a man or a woman. As the
cyclist flashed by something white and gleaming dropped into the road,
and the single word "Come" seemed to cut like a knife through the fog.
That was all; the rider had looked neither to the right nor to the left,
but the word was distinctly uttered. At the same instant an arm dropped
and a long finger pointed to the gleaming white square in the road. It
was like an instantaneous photograph--a flash, and the figure had
vanished in the fog.
"This grows interesting," Steel muttered. "Evidently my shadowy friend
has dropped a book of rules in the road for me. The plot thickens."
It was only a plain white card that lay in the road. A few lines were
typed on the back of it. The words might have been curt, but they were to
the point:--
"Go along the sea front and turn into Brunswick Square. Walk along the
right side of the square until you reach No. 219. You will read the
number over the fanlight. Open the door and it will yield to you; there
is no occasion to knock. The first door inside the hall leads to the
dining-room. Walk into there and wait. Drop this card down the gutter
just opposite you."
David read the directions once or twice carefully. He made a mental note
of 219. After that he dropped the card down the drain-trap nearest at
hand. A little way ahead of him he heard the cycle bell trilling as if in
approval of his action. But David had made up his mind to observe every
rule of the game. Besides, he might be rigidly watched.
The spirit of adventure was growing upon Steel now. He was no longer
holding the solid result before his eyes. He was ready to see the thing
through for its own sake. And as he hurried up North Street, along
Western Road, and finally down Preston Street, he could hear the purring
tinkle of the cycle bell before him. But not once did he catch sight of
the shadowy rider.
All the same his heart was beating a little faster as he turned into
Brunswick Square. All the houses were in pitchy darkness, as they
naturally would be at one o'clock in the morning, so it was only with
great difficulty that Steel could make out a number here and there. As he
walked slowly and hesitatingly along the cycle bell drummed impatiently
ahead of him.
"A hint to me," David muttered. "Stupid that I should have forgotten the
directions to read the number over the fanlight. Also it is logical to
suppose that I am going to find lights at No. 219. All right, my friend;
no need to swear at me with that bell of yours."
He quickened his pace again and finally stopped before one of the big
houses where lights were gleaming from the hall and dining-room windows.
They were electric lights by their great power, and, save for the hall
and dining-room, the rest of the house lay in utter darkness. The cycle
bell let off an approving staccato from behind the blankety fog as Steel
pulled up.
There was nothing abnormal about the house, nothing that struck the
adventurer's eye beyond the extraordinary vividness of the crimson
blind. The two side-windows of the big bay were evidently shuttered,
but the large centre gleamed like a flood of scarlet overlaid with a
silken sheen. Far across the pavement the ruby track struck into the
heart of the fog.
"Vivid note," Steel murmured. "I shall remember that impression."
He was destined never to forget it, but it was only one note in the gamut
of adventure now. With a firm step he walked up the marble flight and
turned the handle. It felt dirty and rusty to the touch. Evidently the
servants were neglectful, or they were employed by people who had small
regard for outward appearances.
The door opened noiselessly, and Steel closed it behind him. A Moorish
lantern cast a brilliant flood of light upon a crimson carpet, a chair,
and an empty oak umbrella-stand. Beyond this there was no atom of
furniture in the hall. It was impossible to see beyond the dining-room
door, for a heavy red velvet curtain was drawn across. David's first
impression was the amazing stillness of the place. It gave him a queer
feeling that a murder had been committed there, and that everybody had
fled, leaving the corpse behind. As David coughed away the lump in his
throat the cough sounded strangely hollow.
He passed into the dining-room and looked eagerly about him. The room was
handsomely furnished, if a little conventional--a big mahogany table in
the centre, rows of mahogany chairs upholstered in morocco, fine modern
prints, most of them artist's proofs, on the walls. A big marble clock,
flanked by a pair of vases, stood on the mantelshelf. There were a large
number of blue vases on the sideboard. The red distemper had faded to a
pale pink in places.
"Tottenham Court Road," Steel smiled to himself. "Modern, solid,
expensive, but decidedly inartistic. Ginger jars fourteen guineas a pair,
worth about as many pence. Moneyed people, solid and respectable, of the
middle class. What brings them playing at mystery like this?"
The room was most brilliantly lighted both from overhead and from the
walls. On the shining desert of the dining-table lay a small, flat parcel
addressed to David Steel, Esq. The novelist tore off the cover and
disclosed a heap of crackling white papers beneath. Rapidly he fluttered
the crisp sheets over--seventy-five Bank of England notes for £10 each.
It was the balance of the loan, the price paid for Steel's presence. All
he had to do now was to place the money in his pocket and walk out of the
house. A few steps and he would be free with nobody to say him nay. It
was a temptation, but Steel fought it down. He slipped the precious notes
into his pocket and buttoned his coat tightly over them. He had no fear
for the coming day now.
"And yet," he murmured, "what of the price I shall have to pay for this?"
Well, it was worth a ransom. And, so long as there was nothing
dishonourable attached to it, Steel was prepared to redeem his pledge. He
knew perfectly well from bitter experience that the poor man pays
usurious rates for fortune's favours. And he was not without a strange
sense of gratitude. If--
Click, click, click. Three electric switches were snapped off almost
simultaneously outside, and the dining-room was plunged into pitchy
darkness. Steel instantly caught up a chair. He was no coward, but he was
a novelist with a novelist's imagination. As he stood there the sweetest,
most musical laugh in the world broke on his ear. He caught the swish of
silken drapery and the subtle scent that suggested the fragrance of a
woman's hair. It was vague, undefined, yet soothing.
"Pray be seated, Mr. Steel," the silvery voice said. "Believe me, had
there been any other way, I would not have given you all this trouble.
You found the parcel addressed to you? It is an earnest of good faith. Is
not that a correct English expression?"
David murmured that it was. But what did the speaker mean? She asked the
question like a student of the English language, yet her accent and
phrasing were perfect. She laughed again noiselessly, and once more Steel
caught the subtle, entrancing perfume.
"I make no further apology for dragging you here at this time," the sweet
voice said. "We knew that you were in the habit of sitting up alone late
at night, hence the telephone message. You will perhaps wonder how we
came to know so much of your private affairs. Rest assured that we learnt
nothing in Brighton. Presently you may gather why I am so deeply
interested in you; I have been for the past fortnight. You see, we were
not quite certain that you would come to our assistance unless we could
find some means of coercing you. Then we go to one of the smartest
inquiry agents in the world and say: 'Tell us all about Mr. David Steel
without delay. Money is no object.' In less than a week we know all about
Beckstein. We leave matters till the last moment. If you only knew how
revolting it all was!"
"So your tone seems to imply, madam," Steel said, drily.
"Oh, but truly. You were in great trouble, and we found a way to get you
out. At a price; ah, yes. But your trouble is nothing compared with
mine--which brings me to business. A fortnight ago last Monday you posted
to Mr. Vanstone, editor of the _Piccadilly Magazine_, the synopsis of the
first four or five chapters of a proposed serial for the journal in
question. You open that story with a young and beautiful woman who is in
deadly peril. Is not that so?"
"Yes," Steel said, faintly. "It is just as you suggest. But how--"
"Never mind that, because I am not going to tell you. In common
parlance--is not that the word?--that woman is in a frightful fix.
There is nothing strained about your heroine's situation, because I
have heard of people being in a similar plight before. Mr. Steel, I
want you to tell me truthfully and candidly, can you see the way clear
to save your heroine? Oh, I don't mean by the long arm of coincidence
or other favourite ruses known to your craft. I mean by common sense,
logical methods, by brilliant ruses, by Machiavelian means. Tell me, do
you see a way?"
The question came eagerly, almost imploringly, from the darkness. David
could hear the quick gasps of his questioner, could catch the rustle of
the silken corsage as she breathed.
"Yes," he said, "I can see a brilliant way out that would satisfy the
strictest logician. But you--"
"Thank Heaven! Mr. Steel, I am your heroine. I am placed in exactly the
same position as the woman whose story you are going to write. The
setting is different, the local colouring is not the same, but the same
deadly peril menaces me. For the love of Heaven hold out your hand to
save a lonely and desperate woman whose only crime is that she is rich
and beautiful. Providence had placed in my hands the gist of your
heroine's story. Hence this masquerade; hence the fact that you are here
to-night. I have helped _you_--help _me_ in return."
It was some time before Steel spoke.
"It shall be as you wish," he said. "I will tell you how I propose to
save my heroine. Her sufferings are fiction; yours will be real. But if
you are to be saved by the same means, Heaven help you to bear the
troubles that are in front of you. Before God, it would be more merciful
for me to be silent and let you go your own way."