Red Blood and Red Ink
The girl backed the car skilfully up an almost invisible lane, and
switched off the engine.
“We’d better get out here,” she said, in matter-of-fact tones. “The
house is only a few yards away.”
They got out and walked down the road. Behind trim hedges, broken by
white gates, loomed up dimly the shadowy masses of substantial houses.
Before one of the white gates Mrs. Spettigue paused.
“Here we are!” she observed, in a low, thrilling voice.
“Oh!” said Mr. Priestley, unable altogether to prevent himself from
wishing they were not. “I—er—I see.”
“What do we do now, Mr. Mullins?”
Mr. Priestley pulled himself together and did his best to vanquish the
curious sinking feeling at the pit of his waistcoat. He must not
forget that he was a professional burglar. The reputation of the
absent Mr. Mullins rested on his shoulders.
“We go in,” he replied, with a decision which he was far from feeling.
They went in.
As they walked up the short drive Mr. Priestley pondered very
earnestly. Now it came to the point, how on earth _did_ one break into
a house? The nearer he got to the building, the more solid and
impenetrable it looked. Weren’t there cunning things to be done with
knife-blades and window-latches? And treacle and that he had never
come at all and being remarkably glad that he had. Anyhow, turnip
indeed!
With infinite care they crept into what seemed to be a passage and
listened. Not a sound was audible. If ever a house was deserted, Mr.
Priestley reflected, surely this one was. A small hand clutched one of
his, and he clutched back. They began to move soundlessly down the
dark passage.
A penetrating squeak brought Mr. Priestley’s heart for a moment into
his mouth. Then he saw that the girl had opened a door on the right of
the passage. Through the aperture a pair of French windows on the
farther side of a fair-sized room was faintly illuminated by the
moonlight.
“This is the library,” said the girl in a low voice and drew him
inside, closing the door behind them.
Mr. Priestley’s first action was the result of his ponderings. One
item of criminal lore at least he had remembered—always provide for
your way of escape! He walked swiftly across the room and opened the
French windows.
“Oh, Mr. Mullins!” exclaimed the girl with soft admiration, when, not
without pride, Mr. Priestley had explained the reason for his action.
“What a thing it is to have an experienced burglar to help me. I
should never have done that by myself.”
Mr. Priestley began to think that perhaps he would not have made such
a bad burglar after all.
“Now, then, where does he keep those letters?” he asked, in brisk,
businesslike tones.
“In one of the drawers of the writing-table,” said the girl softly.
“Would it be safe to turn on the light, do you think?”
“No!” replied Mr. Priestley with firmness. “It wouldn’t.”
“Did you bring an electric torch?”
“Er—no, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Well, just strike a match, and I’ll show you the drawer.”
It was against Mr. Priestley’s instincts of preservation, but he
complied. The flaring match gave him a brief glimpse of a big,
comfortable room, and Mrs. Spettigue standing in front of a large
writing-desk against one wall. Then it died down and Mr. Priestley
prudently extinguished it.
“Did you see?” came the girl’s voice. “This one—second from the top on
the right-hand side. It’s locked, unfortunately.”
“Bother!” said Mr. Priestley with feeling. How on earth did one tackle
a locked drawer? Ah, of course! “Do you think you could get me the
poker, if there is one?” he asked, feeling his way over to the table.
He heard the girl move across the room and a minute later a stout bar
of iron was in his hands. He touched the drawer with it tentatively.
Nothing much happened.
“Bother!” said Mr. Priestley again.
“What a pity you didn’t bring your tools, after all,” observed Mrs.
Spettigue in a thoughtful voice.
Mr. Priestley gave the drawer a smart rap. The noise which resulted
seemed as if it must have awakened the Seven Sleepers. Mr. Priestley
hurriedly abandoned this method of approach.
“I think perhaps, if we——!”
He broke off abruptly, for at that moment the electric light flooded
the room and a gruff voice remarked, in somewhat jerky tones, “Ah,
Chicago Kate—er—um—I suppose? I was—er—um—expecting you.”
There was a terrified squeak from the girl at his side, and Mr.
Priestley, spinning hastily round, found himself confronting, as it
seemed to his horrified gaze, the biggest man he had ever seen.
This formidable-looking personage now standing in the open doorway was
in full evening kit, with a broad blue ribbon across his shirt-front
and an imposing decoration hung about his neck, evidently the insignia
of some important order. And these were not the only striking things
about him; the big black beard that covered his cheeks and chin and
was trimmed to a neat point some three inches below his collar-stud,
added considerably to the strikingness of his appearance. The fact
that he fingered this beard with a gesture that was very like
nervousness, and that his halting, almost reluctant tones were in
strange contrast with the general fierceness of his aspect, Mr.
Priestley was far too agitated to remark.
Mr. Priestley was, in fact, glued to the piece of floor on which he
was standing in sheer horror, bereft of the powers both of movement
and speech. Not so his companion. With an incoherent expression of
emotion she flung herself on her knees before the big man in a gesture
that was undoubtedly dramatic.
“Spare us, sir!” she exclaimed in heart-rending tones. “Do not send
for the police! We were hungry, and came in to see if we could find a
crust of bread. We have not tasted food for three days, either of us.
Scold us, if you must, but don’t send us to prison!”
The big man, whose face during this speech had been a study in
conflicting emotions, ranging from embarrassed bewilderment to painful
efforts to control his features, looked the relief of one who has
recognised an unexpected clue. “I know you, Chicago Kate,” he growled
mildly. “I had word of your arrival in this country. You have been
after my miniatures before, but this time—er—this time——” He hesitated
and looked strangely uncomfortable. “Gimme that poker!” he remarked
suddenly, and advanced to twitch the weapon out of Mr. Priestley’s
nervous hand. “Have you broken open the drawer in which I keep them?”
he demanded over his shoulder of the still kneeling Mrs. Spettigue.
That agile young lady followed him across the room on her knees,
wringing her hands. “No sir! Before God and this gentleman here, I
haven’t! I wouldn’t do such a thing, not if it were ever so!”
“What is the name of your dastardly companion, whose face is strange
to me?” asked the large man with a despairing expression, as of one
this time who has lost all cues and never hopes to find another.
“Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Spettigue earnestly, “I don’t think he’s got
one.”
“Then I shall telephone for the police,” said the other, with an air
of relieved finality. “If—er—if either of you attempts to escape from
this room, you will be shot. I mean—er—biffed on the head with this
poker.”
It was then at last that Mr. Priestley, to whose dazed mind this scene
had fortunately conveyed little or no meaning, came to his senses. At
the same moment he found his voice. His brain had turned in an instant
from boiling hot into icy cold. Perfect indignation casteth out fear,
and Mr. Priestley suddenly discovered that he was very indignant
indeed.
“Yes, send for the police, you—you scoundrel,” he squeaked fiercely.
“Send for the police, and I’ll give you in charge myself. You
villain!” He turned round to the girl. “This is the man you were
telling me about, I suppose?”
The girl jumped up from her knees. “Yes, it is!” she wailed,
continuing to wring her hands. “Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?”
Her anguish added fuel to the flames of Mr. Priestley’s wrath. He
sprang forward and flourished an inexperienced fist a couple of inches
below the black beard. “Blackmail!” he spluttered. “Open that drawer
and hand over those letters at once, or it will be the worse for you,
my friend. You—you hound!”
There was no mistaking the large man’s bewilderment. “Letters,” he
repeated doubtfully. “There are—er—um—it’s my miniatures in that
drawer, you know. Besides,” he added with an appearance of acute
discomfort, “I’ve got to ring up the police. Must. Er—duty, you know,
and all that.” The thought appeared to strike him that he was perhaps
not being quite effective enough. He assumed a terrific scowl,
brandished the poker and laid his hand on the telephone.
Mr. Priestley sprang forward as if to forestall him, but his companion
in crime was quicker. With a piercing shriek she flung her arms about
Mr. Priestley’s neck and clung to him desperately.
“Save me, Mr. Mullins! Save me!” she cried hysterically. “My husband
would never forgive me if I got three years—never! He’s so dreadfully
conventional. Oh, save me—save me!”
His fair burden embarrassed Mr. Priestley not a little in his efforts
to reach the telephone. For a moment he struggled frantically. Then he
became aware that she was trying to whisper something into his ear. He
ceased his efforts and listened.
“Draw your revolver!” she was whispering frantically. “We must get
away! That story about the letters was all nonsense, because you’d
reformed. It was the miniatures I was after. If he sends for the
police we’ll get five years’ imprisonment! For Heaven’s sake draw the
revolver and fire it at him! It’s only blank, but he’ll be frightened
and we can get away before he realises.”
For an instant Mr. Priestley’s long-suffering brain seemed to go
suddenly numb. He had been taken in—tricked—bamboozled. . . . There
were no letters—it was a criminal enterprise he was engaged on! Five
years in prison!
Then his mind ceased to think and became one single emotion—the
overpowering desire to get _away_. He whipped the revolver out of his
pocket, fired it blindly in the direction of the big man and dragged
the girl with him towards the open French window, all in one movement.
A horrified exclamation from his companion did not check him. A
second, and more urgent one, did. On the threshold of the window he
turned and looked back. To his horror he saw the big man leaning on
the writing-desk in a curiously sagging attitude, one hand to his
chest; and below the hand an unmistakably red stream trickled slowly
down across his white shirt-front. Before Mr. Priestley’s horrified
eyes he crumpled slowly up without a word and collapsed on to the
floor, where he lay hideously still.
The girl was staring at him too, one hand pressed to her mouth. Slowly
she turned a horrified face to Mr. Priestley and gazed at him with
wide eyes. “It—it must have been loaded after all!” she whispered in
strangled tones.
Suddenly she darted forward, fell on her knees by the big man’s side
and ripped open his shirt-front, inserting a small hand. For a moment
both she and Mr. Priestley were as still as statues, hardly daring to
breathe. Then:—
“I—don’t—think—his—heart—is—beating!” she muttered jerkily. “You come
and feel!”
Mr. Priestley shook his head speechlessly, hardly conscious of what he
was doing.
“Come and feel!” ordered the girl, more peremptorily.
Mr. Priestley went.
The girl took his hand and held it where hers had been. That this
happened to be on the right of the corpse’s chest instead of the left
he was far too agitated to notice.
“Can you feel anything?” asked the girl anxiously.
“No,” Mr. Priestley had to admit.
The girl sat back on her heels. “He’s dead,” she said, with horrid
finality.
They stared at each other.
“Good God!” muttered Mr. Priestley distractedly. “What on earth had we
better do?”
The girl gave him no help. “It’s murder,” she said shortly.
“But—but—good God, I never _meant_ to kill him! It isn’t _murder_. I
thought the revolver was loaded with blank ammunition, as you said.”
“So did I!” said the girl helplessly. “I’m sure I told my maid to load
it with blank. But you wouldn’t believe how careless that girl is. I
knew she’d be getting me into trouble one of these days.”
The corpse’s face twitched spasmodically, but Mr. Priestley was
fortunately still engaged in staring at the cause of all his trouble.
“And it won’t help you in the least to say you thought it wasn’t
loaded,” that lady told him frankly. “They’ll know we came here after
those miniatures. You’re known to the police, I suppose; and of course
I am. It’s not much good saying we shot him by mistake; it’s murder
they’ll try us for. If we’re caught, it’s a hanging job for both of
us.”
“There’s no need,” said Mr. Priestley slowly, “for you to appear in it
at all. After all, it was I who shot him; nobody’s going to know there
were two of us. We’d better separate, and you can——”
“’Ullo!” said a gruff voice from the open window—a really gruff voice
this time. “What’s all this about, eh?”
Both of them started to their feet. Just inside the room was a burly
policeman, flashing a quite unnecessary lantern. They stared at him
aghast as he advanced upon them.
“’Eard a scream comin’ from ’ere, not above two minutes back,” went on
the policeman sternly, “an’ then a shot. Or sounded like a shot, it
did. So I thought as ’ow——” He caught sight of the corpse on the
floor, which had hitherto been partially hidden by an arm-chair, and
broke off abruptly. His bulging eyes contemplated it with incredulity.
The girl was the first to recover herself. Clapping her hand to her
mouth, she turned hastily about and her shoulders heaved as if under
great emotion; the next moment she faced the guardian of the law, her
face still working painfully.
“We didn’t do it, constable!” she cried wildly. “We found it here. We
heard the shot too, and came in like you. We didn’t do it!”
The constable took no notice of this dramatic cry. His eyes were still
fastened on the sprawling corpse, upon whose white shirt-front the
large red stain showed up with ominous distinctness. He continued to
contemplate it.
Mr. Priestley, fastened once more to the ground, contemplated it also.
In his paralysed brain one thought only found place—“murder will out!”
In his more intelligent moments Mr. Priestley might have noted with
interest that the more dramatic the situation became, the more he had
recourse to platitudes to express his feelings; as it was, he could
not even have told you what a platitude was.
“Is ’e—is ’e _dead_?” asked the constable in awed tones.
“I’m afraid he is,” replied the girl more soberly.
With an effort the constable’s eyes disengaged themselves from the
body and roved slowly over the room. They fell on the revolver which
Mr. Priestley in his agitation had dropped. With an exclamation of
pleasure the constable picked it up.
“This ’ere’s the weapon,” he remarked acutely.
The corpse took advantage of his and Mr. Priestley’s preoccupation
with the revolver to direct an expressive glance towards the girl,
uneasy and interrogative. The glance said, as plainly as glances may,
“What the blazes are we to do now?”
The girl contorted her pretty features into a prodigious wink. The
wink said, as clearly as a wink can: “You just lie doggo and leave it
all to me. This is an unexpected development, I admit, but advantage
may yet be derived from it. Take your cue from me and go on emulating
a door-nail.” The corpse did so.
“Well, I’ll be blowed!” observed the policeman, continuing to stare at
the revolver. A gleam illuminated his stolid face. “Murder!” he
exclaimed. “Murder —that’s what it is! And this ’ere’s the weapon that
did it.” He looked with sudden suspicion on the guilty couple. “Now
then,” he said in an official voice. “What’ve you two got to say, I’d
like to know? And I warn you that anything you say will be taken down
and used in evidence against you.” He scowled upon them darkly.
“Then we won’t say anything, constable,” replied the girl brightly.
“But we really didn’t do it, you know. Can we go now, please? We’ve
got an appointment with——”
“Are you sure he’s dead, constable?” Mr. Priestley interrupted, in not
too steady tones. His mind had begun to work again and the glimmerings
of a plan had appeared to him. “You haven’t—er—examined him, you know.
He may not be dead at all.”
“But the young lady said he was,” objected the constable, with the air
of one scoring a distinct point.
Mr. Priestley almost danced with impatience. “Well, examine him, man,
and find out for yourself!” he cried. The habit of obedience was
strong in the constable. This was how he was accustomed to being
addressed, and then he just went and did as he had been told. He did
so now, and turned his back on the other two in order to advance
towards the corpse.
Now it had been Mr. Priestley’s plan, as soon as this large back was
turned, to grab the girl by the wrist and make a bolt for it, trusting
to the darkness and the waiting two-seater to make a clean get-away.
What was to come after that, or what his own future course was to be,
he had not had time to consider; for the present the future could take
care of itself. He dived forward to grab.
The girl must have been a singularly obtuse young woman. Apparently
she had not gathered the faintest inkling of Mr. Priestley’s deep
scheme. Instead of waiting to be grabbed she had actually darted
forward herself and forestalled the constable at the corpse’s side.
“His heart isn’t beating at all!” she exclaimed, dropping on her knees
again and guiding the constable’s large hand inside the corpse’s
shirt.
It is remarkable how emotion derives us of a large proportion of our
horse-sense. The constable’s emotion had a different basis from that
of Mr. Priestley, but neither did he notice that he was anxiously
feeling the corpse’s right wing instead of his left.
“And his pulse isn’t beating either,” amplified the girl, submitting
the corpse’s inert wrist to official inspection.
“It isn’t that,” agreed the constable solemnly. He was perfectly
right. Pulses very seldom do beat on the wrong side of the wrist.
“Let’s try a feather on his nose,” suggested the girl. “Have you got a
feather? No? Well, I suppose a hair will do.” She plucked one from her
own head and laid it delicately across the corpse’s nostrils; it did
not quiver. She waited a few moments till signs of incipient apoplexy
became apparent in the corpse’s features, then lifted the hair and
examined it closely. “It never moved,” she announced. “Here,
constable, you’d better keep this. It’s a valuable piece of evidence,
you know. Have you got a pocket-book?”
The constable took the hair and placed it carefully between the blank
pages of his notebook. He was not quite certain as to its precise
importance, but he was very amenable to suggestion. “’E’s dead all
right,” he announced portentously.
In the background Mr. Priestley was hovering uneasily. The aching to
escape was getting almost unbearable. Whatever this extraordinary girl
might or might not be, her continued proximity to the representative
of the Law was intolerable. Escape first, and explanations, perhaps,
afterwards; but anyhow, escape first! He cast agonising glances from
her to the invitingly open window, and from the open window to her.
The ridiculous child did not seem even to understand the awful gravity
of her position.
Casting discretion to the winds, he caught her eye with his own
rolling optic, jerked his head backward and then nodded it towards the
window; he could not make his meaning plainer without words.
He had made it only too plain. The constable might not have possessed
the brightest intellect in Duffley, but Mr. Priestley’s agitated eye
and jerky leaping would have conveyed suspicion to the most
charitable. The constable rose portentously to his feet. Mr. Priestley
edged towards the window. The constable followed him.
Unfortunately for Mr. Priestley’s plans it was his opponent this time
who had the revolver. Nor did he scruple to employ it. “You stand
still!” ordered the constable in a dignified bellow, the inner meaning
of the situation growing plainer to him every minute. Here was a
perfectly good murder, and here were two people in a state of
considerable agitation, and here also was a revolver. This wanted
looking into. “You stand still!” he repeated, advancing to look into
it.
Mr. Priestley stood still; but he did not stand silent. “Run!” he
shouted suddenly to the girl, unawed even by the menacing revolver.
“Run for it—window—I’ll look after this chap! Get away!”
“Ho!” said the policeman, and promptly placed his burly body between
the girl and the window. “Would, would you? You’ll ’ave to
comealongerme, both of you. Now then, ’ands up!”
It is difficult not to accede to the request of a formidable man when
his demand is emphasised by a judiciously wielded revolver, and there
was no doubt that the constable was now a very formidable man indeed.
The state of affairs had become even clearer to him. Here were not
only two murderers, caught quite literally red-handed, but here also
was himself, and at the business end of a revolver. Even the constable
could put this two and two together and make the answer “sergeant.”
After a momentary hesitation, Mr. Priestley’s hands wobbled up. After
a still longer hesitation, those of the girl did also. The happy,
carefree expression had departed from her face; she looked like a lady
who had made advances to a cow and found that she was toying with a
bull. The corpse took a hasty glance round and uttered a faint,
strangled sound, but spoke no word; his not to reason why, his but to
do and die. He went on dying.
By means of a series of brisk commands, punctuated by prods of the
revolver, the constable manœuvred his captives into line facing the
door. They jumped nimbly to execute his pleasure. Then their wrists
adjacent to one another were gripped, there was a sharp click, and the
sound ensued as of a heavy body stepping back with satisfaction.
“Now you can take ’em down,” observed the constable almost
benevolently, regarding his handiwork with modest pride. “And stand
still while I make out me report, _if_ you please. An’ don’t you try
any more monkey-tricks with _me_.” He drew out a stub of pencil from
his pocket, seated himself at the desk, laid the revolver in front of
him and contemplated the two with a truculent eye.
They returned his gaze gloomily, even Mr. Priestley. Mr. Priestley had
never before been tethered by the wrist to that of a particularly
charming young woman, and he might have been pardoned for feeling a
little exhilaration in the idea; yet his countenance was completely
lacking in exhilaration. A large number of emotions, it is true, were
represented there, but exhilaration was not among them. Nor did the
young woman evince any greater delight in being tethered to Mr.
Priestley. Handcuffs evidently brought her soul no joy. By her
expression, anybody less addicted to the use of handcuffs would have
been hard to find. She now wore the air of one who has stepped gaily
into a train labelled Birmingham, and finds herself in Crewe; a blend
of dismay, annoyance, bewilderment as to the precise whereabouts, and
anxiety regarding the return to the starting-point. The corpse was now
prudently keeping its eyes tightly closed.
And then events happened with a rapidity that would have done credit
to an American Cinema producer. With one dive Mr. Priestley was at the
desk, and the revolver in his hand. With another he was at the nearest
door, and lo! it was open. The young woman, having no option, followed
his movements about the room with the jerky leaps of a fish manœuvring
in mid-air, at the end of a line; this was not the moment to consider
feminine deportment, and Mr. Priestley quite rightly did not stop to
do so.
The door he had flung open was not that by which they had entered the
room; it gave access to a shallow cupboard, having shelves across its
upper half and tolerably empty below. Mr. Priestley viewed it for
one-fifth of a second with exultation, then he turned back to the
thoroughly bewildered constable. Rural constables get very little time
for attending the cinema.
“Get in there,” said Mr. Priestley very grimly to the constable, “as
you value your life.” And he in turn pointed his words by a recourse
to the _argumentum ad hominem_.
The constable did value his life. He did not know very much of what
was happening, but he did know that. He got in.
Mr. Priestley closed the door on him and turned the key. Then he bent
down, jerked the young woman’s right wrist somewhere into the
neighbourhood of the small of her back, and curved his free arm round
her knees. The next moment she was swung off her feet and hoisted up
in the air, while this new cave-man edition of Mr. Priestley trotted
with hasty, if slightly wobbly steps out into the night. Thus did the
knight not only rescue his lady, but even carried her off with him in
the orthodox way.
The corpse was so far galvanised as to sit up and stare after their
swaying figures. Then he, too, rose and fled into the night, uttering
strange noises.