In the Enemy’s Lair
With some difficulty Cheyne overcame a sudden urge to leap at his
companion’s throat.
“You infernal scoundrel!” he cried thickly. “Injure a hair of Miss
Merrill’s head and you and your confounded friends will hang! I’ll go
to Scotland Yard. Do you think I mind about myself?”
Dangle gave a cheery smile.
“Right, Mr. Cheyne,” he answered briskly, “by all means. Just do go to
Scotland Yard and make your complaint. And what are you going to tell
them? That Miss Merrill is in the hands of a dangerous gang of
ruffians, and must be rescued immediately? And the present address of
this gang is—?” He looked quizzically at the other. “I don’t think so.
I’m afraid Scotland Yard would be too slow for you. You see, my
friends are waiting for a telephone message from me. If that is not
received or if it is unsatisfactory—well, don’t let us discuss
unpleasant topics, but Miss Merrill will be very, very sorry.”
Cheyne choked with rage, but for the moment he found himself unable to
reply. That he was being bluffed he had no doubt, and in any other
circumstances he would have taken a stronger line. But where Joan
Merrill was concerned he could run no risks. It was evident that she
really was in the power of the gang. Dangle could not possibly have
known about the throwing of the tracing over the wall unless he really
had found her as he had described.
A very short cogitation convinced Cheyne that these people had him in
their toils. Application to Scotland Yard would be useless. No doubt
the police could find the conspirators, but they could not find them
in time. So far as retaliation or a constructive policy was concerned,
he saw that he was down and out.
His thoughts turned to the proposal Dangle had made him. It was
certainly fair—too fair, he still thought—but if it was a genuine
offer, he need have no qualms about accepting it. Frau Schulz, Mrs.
Price, Joan and himself were all promised shares of the profits. A
clause could be put in covering Price, if he afterwards turned out to
be alive. The gang might be a crowd of sharpers and thieves—so at
least the melancholy Speedwell had said—but, as Cheyne came to look at
it, they had not really broken the law to a much greater extent than
he had himself. His case to the authorities—suppose he were to lay it
before them—would not be so overwhelmingly clear. Something could be
said for—or rather against—both sides.
If he had to give way he might as well give way with a good grace. He
therefore choked down his rage, and turning to Dangle, said quietly:
“I see you’ve won this trick. I’ll accept your offer and go with you.”
Dangle, evidently delighted, sprang to his feet.
“Splendid, Mr. Cheyne,” he cried warmly, holding out his hand. “Shake
hands, won’t you? You’ll not repent your action, I promise you.”
But this was too much for Cheyne.
“No,” he declared. “Not yet. You haven’t satisfied me of your _bona
fides_. I’m sorry, but you have only yourselves to thank. When I find
Miss Merrill at liberty and see Schulz’s cipher, I’ll be satisfied,
and then I will join with you and give you all the help I can.”
Dangle seemed rather dashed, but he laughed shortly as he answered: “I
suppose we deserve that after all. But you will soon be convinced.
There is just a formality to be gone through before we start. Though
you may not believe my word, we believe yours, and we have agreed that
all that we want before taking you further into our confidence, is
that you swear an oath of loyalty to us. You won’t object to that, I
presume?”
Cheyne hesitated, then he said:
“I swear on my sacred honor that I will loyally abide by the spirit of
the agreement which you have outlined in so far as you and your
friends act loyally to me and to Miss Merrill, and to that extent
only.”
“That’s reasonable, and good enough,” Dangle commented. “Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and phone to the others. You will
understand,” he explained on his return, “that my friends are some
distance away from Wembley, and it will therefore take them a little
time to get in. If they start now they will be there as soon as we
are.”
It was getting towards ten o’clock when Cheyne and Dangle turned into
the gateway of Earlswood. A yellow car stood at the footpath, at sight
of which Dangle exclaimed: “See, they’ve arrived.” His ring brought
Blessington to the door, and the latter greeted Cheyne apologetically,
but with the same charm of manner that he had displayed in the
Edgecombe Hotel at Plymouth.
“I do hope, Mr. Cheyne,” he declared, “that even after all that has
passed, we may yet be friends. We admire the way you have fought your
corner, and we feel that what we both up to the present have failed to
do may well be accomplished if we unite our forces. Come in and see if
you can make friends with Sime.”
“I came to see Miss Merrill,” Cheyne answered shortly. “If Miss
Merrill is not produced and allowed to go without restraint our
agreement is _non est_.”
“Naturally,” Blessington returned smoothly. “We understand that that
is a _sine qua non_. And so Miss Merrill will be produced. She is not
here; she is at our house in the country in charge of Miss Dangle, and
that for two reasons. The first is this. She met with, as doubtless
you know, a trifling accident last night, and her ankle being a little
painful, she was kept awake for some time. This morning when we left
she was still asleep. We did not therefore disturb her. That you will
appreciate, Mr. Cheyne, and the other reason you will appreciate
equally. We had to satisfy ourselves by a personal interview that you
really meant to give us a square deal.” He raised his hand as Cheyne
would have spoken. “There’s nothing in that to which you need take
exception. It is an ordinary business precaution—nothing more or
less.”
“And when will Miss Merrill be set at liberty?”
“While I don’t admit the justice of the phrase, I may say that as soon
as we have all mutually pledged ourselves to play the game I will take
the car back to the other house, and when Miss Merrill has taken the
same oath will drive her to her studio. Perhaps you would write her a
note that you have sworn it, as she mightn’t believe me. There are a
few preliminaries to be arranged with Dangle and Sime can fix up with
you. If you are at the studio at midday you will be in time to welcome
Miss Merrill.”
This did not meet with Cheyne’s approval. He wished to go himself to
the mysterious house with Blessington, but the latter politely but
firmly conveyed to him that he had not yet irrevocably committed
himself on their side, and until he had done so they could not give
away their best chance of escape should the police become interested
in their movements. Cheyne argued with some bitterness, but the other
side held the trumps, and he was obliged to give way.
This point settled, nothing could have exceeded the easy friendliness
of the trio. If Arnold Price were alive he would share equally with
the rest. Would Mr. Cheyne come to the study while the formalities
were got through? Did he consider this oath—typewritten—would meet the
case? Well, they would take it first, binding themselves individually
to each other and to him. Each of the three swore loyalty to the
remaining quintet, the oaths of Joan Merrill and Susan being assumed
for the moment. Then Cheyne swore and they all solemnly shook hands.
“Now that’s done, Mr. Cheyne, we’ll prove our confidence in you by
showing you the cipher. But first perhaps you would write to Miss
Merrill. Also if any point is not quite clear to you please do not
hesitate to question us.”
Cheyne was by no means enamored of the way things had turned out. He
had been forced into an association with men with whom he had little
in common and whom he did not trust. Had it not been for the trump
card they held in the person of Joan Merrill nothing would have
induced him to throw in his lot with them. But now, contingent on
their good faith to him, he had pledged his word, and though he was
not sure how far an enforced pledge was binding, he felt that as long
as they kept their part of the bargain, he must keep his. He therefore
wrote his letter, and then turning to Blessington, answered him
civilly:
“There is one thing I should like to know; I have thought about it
many times. How did you drug me in that hotel in Plymouth without my
knowledge and without leaving any traces in the food?”
Blessington smiled.
“I’ll tell you that with pleasure, Mr. Cheyne,” he answered readily,
“but I confess I am surprised that a man of your acumen was puzzled by
it. It depended upon prearrangement, and given that, was perfectly
simple. I provided myself with the drug—if you don’t mind I won’t say
how, as I might get someone else into trouble—but I got a small phial
of it. I also took two other small bottles, one full of clean water,
the other empty, together with a small cloth. Also I took my Extra
Special Flask. Sime, like a good fellow, get my flask out of the
drawer of my wrecked escritoire.” He smiled ruefully at Cheyne. “Then
I prepared for our lunch: the private room, the menu and all complete.
I told them at the hotel we had some business to arrange, and that we
didn’t want to be disturbed after lunch. You know, of course, that I
got all details of your movements from Miss Dangle?”
“Yes, I understand that.”
As Cheyne spoke Sime re-entered the room, putting down on the table
the flask which had figured in the scene at the hotel. Blessington
handed it to Cheyne.
“Examine that flask, Mr. Cheyne,” he invited. “Do you see anything
remarkable about it?”
It seemed an ordinary silver pocket flask, square and flat, and with a
screw-down silver stopper. It was chased on both sides with a plain
but rather pleasing design, and the base was flat so that it would
stand securely. But Cheyne could see nothing about it in any way
unusual.
“Open it,” Blessington suggested.
Cheyne unscrewed the stopper and looked down the neck, but except that
there was a curious projection at one side, which reduced the passage
down to half the usual size, it seemed as other flasks. Blessington
laughed.
[Illustration: Two diagrams of a flask, divided down the middle and
containing liquids in both parts. In the second diagram, the flask is
tipped, and liquid pours from the right half only.]
“Look here,” he said, and seizing a scrap of paper, he drew the two
sketches which I reproduce. “The flask is divided down the middle by a
diaphragm _C_, so as to form two chambers, _A_ and _B_. In these
chambers are put two liquids, of which one is drugged and the other
isn’t. _E_ and _F_ are two half diaphragms, and _D_ is a very light
and delicately fitted flap valve which will close the passage to
either chamber. When you invert the flask, the liquid in the upper or
_B_ chamber runs out along diaphragm _C_, and its weight turns over
valve _D_ so that the passage to _A_ chamber is closed. The liquid from
_B_ then pours out in the ordinary way. The liquid in _A_, however,
cannot escape, because it is caught by the diaphragm _F_. If you want
to pour out the liquid from _A_ you simply turn the flask upside down,
when the conditions as to the two liquids are reversed. You probably
didn’t notice that I used the flask in this way at our lunch. You may
remember that I poured out your liqueur first—it was drugged, of
course. Then I got a convenient fit of coughing. That gave me an
excuse to set down the flask and pick it up again, but when I picked
it up I was careful to do so by the other side, so that undrugged
liqueur poured into my own cup. I drank my coffee at once to reassure
you. Simple, wasn’t it?”
“More than simple,” Cheyne answered with unwilling admiration in his
tone. “A dangerous toy, but I admit, deuced ingenious. But I don’t
follow even yet. That would have left the drugged remains in the cup.”
“Quite so, but you have forgotten my other two bottles and my cloth. I
poured the dregs from your cup into the empty bottle, washed the cup
with water from the other, wiped it with my cloth, poured out another
cup of coffee and drank it, leaving harmless grounds for any
inquisitive analyst to experiment with.”
“By Jove!” said Cheyne, then adding regretfully: “If we had only tried
the handle of the cup for fingerprints!”
“I put gloves on after you went over.”
Cheyne smiled.
“You deserved to succeed,” he admitted ruefully.
“I succeeded in drugging you,” Blessington answered, “but I did not
succeed in getting what I wanted. Now, Mr. Cheyne, you would like to
see the tracing. Show it to him, Dangle, while I go back to the other
house for Miss Merrill.”
Dangle left the room, returning presently with the blue-gray sheet
which had been the pivot upon which all the strange adventures of the
little company had turned. Cheyne saw at a glance it was the tracing
which he had secured in the upper room in the house in Hopefield
Avenue. There in the corners were the holes made by the drawing-pins
which had fixed it to the door while it was being photographed. There
were the irregularly spaced circles, with their letters and numbers,
and there, written clockwise in a large circle, the words: “England
expects every man to do his duty.” Cheyne gazed at it with interest,
while Dangle and Sime sat watching him. What on earth could it mean?
He pondered awhile, then turned to his companions.
“Have you not been able to read any of it?” he queried.
Dangle shook his head.
“Not so much as a single word—not a letter even!” he declared. “I tell
you, Mr. Cheyne, it’s a regular sneezer! I wouldn’t like to say how
many hours we’ve spent—all of us—working at it. And I don’t think
there’s a book on ciphers in the whole of London that we haven’t read.
And not a glimmer of light from any of them! Blessington had a theory
that each of these circles was intended to represent one or more
atoms, according to the number it contained, and that certain circles
could be grouped to make molecules of the various substances that were
to be mixed with the copper. I never could quite understand his idea,
but in any case all our work hasn’t helped us to find them. The truth
is that we’re stale. We want a fresh brain on it, and particularly a
woman’s brain. Sometimes a woman’s intuition will lead her to a lucky
guess. We hope it may in this case.”
He paused, then went on again: “Another thing we tried was this.
Suppose that by some system of numerical substitution each of these
numbers represents a letter. Then groups of these letters together
with the letters already in the circles should represent words. Of
course it is difficult to group them, though we tried again and again.
At first the idea seemed promising, but we could make nothing of it.
We couldn’t find any system either of substitution or of grouping
which would give a glimmering of sense. No, we’re up against it and no
mistake, and when we think of the issues involved we go nearly mad
from exasperation. Take the thing, Mr. Cheyne, and see what you and
Miss Merrill can do. That is the original, but I have made a tracing
of it, so that we can continue our work simultaneously.”
Cheyne felt himself extraordinarily thrilled by this recital, and the
more he examined the mysterious markings on the sheet the more
interested he grew. He had always had a _penchant_ for puzzles, and
ciphers appealed to him as being perhaps the most alluring kind of
puzzles extant. Particularly did this cipher attract him because of
the circumstances under which it had been brought to his notice. He
longed to get to grips with it, and he looked forward with keen
delight to a long afternoon and evening over it with Joan Merrill,
whose interest in it would, he felt sure, be no whit less than his
own.
Certainly, he thought, his former enemies had made a good beginning.
So far they were playing the game, and he began to wonder if he had
not to some extent misjudged them, and if the evil characters given
them by the gloomy Speedwell were not tinged by that despondent
individual’s jaundiced outlook on life in general.
Dangle had left the room, and he now returned with a bottle of whisky
and a box of cigars.
“A drink and a cigar to cement our alliance, Mr. Cheyne,” he proposed,
“and then I think our business will be done.”
Cheyne hesitated, while a vision of the private room in the Edgecombe
Hotel rose in his memory. Dangle read his thoughts, for he smiled and
went on:
“I see you don’t quite trust us yet, and I don’t know that I can blame
you. But we really are all right this time. Examine these tumblers and
then pour out the stuff yourself, and we’ll drink ours first. We must
get you convinced of our goodwill.”
Cheyne hesitated, but Dangle insisting, he demonstrated to his
satisfaction that his companions drank the same mixture as himself.
Then Dangle opened the cigar box.
“These are specially good, though I say it myself. The box was given
to Blessington by a rich West Indian planter. We only smoke them on
state occasions, such as the present. Won’t you take one?”
Cheyne felt it would be churlish to refuse, and soon the three were
puffing such tobacco as Cheyne at all events had seldom before smoked.
Sime then excused himself, explaining that though business might be
neglected it could not be entirely ignored, and Cheyne, thereupon
taking the hint, said that he too must be off.
“Tomorrow we shall be kept late in town,” Dangle explained, as they
stood on the doorstep, “but the next evening we shall be here. Will
you and Miss Merrill come down and report progress, and let us have a
council of war?”
Cheyne agreed and was turning away, when Dangle made a sudden gesture.
“By George! I was forgetting,” he cried. “Wait a second, Mr. Cheyne.”
He disappeared back into the house, returning a moment later with a
small purse, which he handed to Cheyne.
“Do you happen to know if that is Miss Merrill’s?” he inquired. “It
was found beside the chair in which we placed her last night when we
carried her in.”
Cheyne recognized the article at once. He had frequently seen Joan use
it.
“Yes, it’s hers,” he answered, to which Dangle replied asking if he
would take it for her.
Cheyne slipped the purse into his pocket, and next moment he was
walking along Dalton Road towards the station, free, well, and with
the tracing in his pocket. Until that moment, in the inner recesses of
his consciousness doubt of the _bona fides_ of the trio had lingered.
Until then the fear that he was to be the victim of some plausible
trick had dwelt in his heart. But now at last he was convinced. Had
the men desired to harm him they had had a perfect opportunity. He had
been for the last hour entirely in their power. No one knew where he
had gone, and they could with the greatest ease have murdered him, and
either hidden his body about the house or garden or removed it in the
car during the night. Yes, this time he believed their story. It was
eminently reasonable, and as a matter of fact, it had been pretty well
proved by their actions, as well as by the facts that he had learned
at the Admiralty and elsewhere. They were at a standstill because they
couldn’t read the cipher, and they really did want, as they said, the
help of his and Joan’s fresh brains. From their point of view they had
done a wise thing in thus approaching him—indeed, a masterly thing.
Cheyne was not conceited and he did not consider his own mental powers
phenomenal, but he knew he was good at puzzles, and at the very least,
he and Joan were of average intelligence. Moreover, they were the only
other persons who knew of the cipher, and it was the soundest strategy
to turn their antagonism into cooperation.
He reached North Wembley to find a train about to start for Town, and
some half hour later he was walking up the platform at Euston. He
looked at his watch. It was barely eleven. An hour would elapse before
Joan would reach her rooms, and that meant that he had more than half
an hour to while away before going to meet her. It occurred to him
that in his excitement he had forgotten to breakfast, and though he
was not hungry, he thought another cup of coffee would not be
unacceptable. Moreover, he could at the same time have a look over the
cipher. He therefore went to the refreshment room, gave his order, and
sat down at a table in a secluded corner. Then drawing the mysterious
sheet from his pocket, he began to examine it.
As he leaned forward over his coffee he felt Joan’s purse in his
pocket, and suddenly fearful lest in his eagerness to tell her his
experiences he should forget to give it to her, he took it out and
laid it on the table, intending to carry it in his hand until he met
her. Then he returned to his study of the tracing.
There are those who tell us that in this world there are no trifles:
that every event, however unimportant it may appear, is preordained
and weighty as every other. On this bright spring morning in the first
class refreshment room at Euston, Cheyne was to meet with a
demonstration of the truth of this assertion which left him marveling
and humbly thankful. For there took place what seemed to be a trifling
thing, and yet that trifle proved to be the most important event that
had ever taken place, or was to take place, in his life.
When he took his first sip of coffee he found that he had forgotten to
put sugar in it, and when he looked at the sugar bowl he saw that by
the merest chance it was empty. An empty sugar bowl. A trifle that, if
ever there was one! And yet nothing of more supreme moment had ever
happened to Cheyne than the finding of that empty bowl on his table at
that moment.
The sugar bowl, then, being empty, he picked it up with his free hand
and carried it across to the counter to ask the barmaid to fill it.
Scarcely had he done so when there came from behind him an appalling
explosion. There was a reverberating crash mingled with the tinkle of
falling glass, while a sharp blast of air swept past him, laden with
the pungent smell of some burned chemical. He wheeled round, the
shrill screams of the barmaids in his ears, to see the corner of the
room where he had been sitting, in complete wreckage. Through a fog of
smoke and dust he saw that his table and chair were nonexistent,
neighboring tables and chairs were overturned, the window was gone,
hat-racks, pictures, wall advertisements were heaped in broken and
torn confusion, while over all was spread a coat of plaster which had
been torn from the wall. On the floor lay a man who had been seated at
an adjoining table, the only other occupant of that part of the room.
For a moment no one moved, and then there came a rush of feet from
without, and a number of persons burst into the room. Porters, ticket
collectors, a guard, and several members of the public came crowding
in, staring with round eyes and open mouths at the debris. Eager hands
helped to raise the prostrate man, who appeared to be more or less
seriously injured, while hurried questions were bandied from lip to
lip.
It did not need the barmaid’s half hysterical cry: “Why, it was your
purse; I saw it go,” to make clear to Cheyne what had happened, and as
he grasped the situation his heart melted within him and a great fear
took possession of his mind. Once again these dastardly scoundrels had
hoaxed him! Their oaths, their protestations of friendship, their talk
of an alliance—all were a sham! They were out to murder him. The purse
they had evidently stolen from Joan, filling it with explosives, with
some time agent—probably chemical—to make it go off at the proper
moment. They had given it to him under conditions which made it a
practical certainty that at that moment it would be in his pocket,
when he would be blown to pieces without leaving any clue as to the
agency which had wrought his destruction. He suddenly felt sick as he
thought of the whole hideous business.
But it was not contemplation of the fate he had so narrowly escaped
that sent his heart leaping into his throat in deadly panic. If these
unspeakable ruffians had tried to murder him with their hellish
explosives, what about Joan Merrill? All the talk about driving her
back to her rooms must have been mere eyewash. She must be in deadly
peril—if it was not too late: if she was not already—Merciful Heaven,
he could not frame the thought!—if she was not already _dead_! He
burst into a cold sweat, as the idea burned itself into his
consciousness. And then suddenly he knew the reason. He loved her! He
loved this girl who had saved his life and who had already proved
herself such a splendid comrade and helpmeet. His own life, the
wretched secret, the miserable pursuit of wealth, victory over the
gang—what were these worth? They were forgotten—they were nothing—they
were less than nothing! It was Joan and Joan’s safety that filled his
mind. “Oh, God,” he murmured in an agony, “save her, save her! No
matter about anything else, only save her!”
He stood, leaning against the counter, overcome with these thoughts.
Then the need for immediate action brought him to his senses. Perhaps
it was not too late. Perhaps something might yet be done. Scotland
Yard! That was his only hope. Instantly he must go to Scotland Yard
and implore the help of the authorities.
He glanced round. Persons in authority were entering and pushing to
the front of the now dense crowd. That surely was the stationmaster,
and there was a policeman. Cheyne did not want to be detained to
answer questions. He slipped rapidly into the throng, and by making
way for those behind to press forward, soon found himself on its
outskirts. In a few seconds he was on the platform and in a couple of
minutes he was in a taxi driving towards Westminster as fast as a
promise of double fare could take him.
He raced into the great building on the Embankment and rather
incoherently stated his business. He was asked to sit down, and after
waiting what seemed to him interminable ages, but what was really
something under five minutes, he was told that Inspector French would
see him. Would he please come this way.