THE LOCKED HOUSE
From the road, just before he descended to cross the bridge into
Brookhollow, he caught a gleam of light straight ahead. For a moment
it did not occur to him that there was anything strange in his seeing
a light in the old Carew house. Then, suddenly, he realised that a
light ought not to be burning behind the lowered shades of a house
which was supposed to be empty and locked.
His instant impulse was to put on his brakes then and there, but the
next moment he realised that his car must already have been heard and
seen by whoever had lighted that shaded lamp. The car was already on
the old stone bridge; the Carew house stood directly behind the
crossroads ahead; and he swung to the right into the creek road and
sped along it until he judged that neither his lights nor the sound of
his motor could be distinguished by the unknown occupant of the Carew
house.
Then he ran his car out among the tall weeds close to the line of
scrub willows edging the creek; extinguished his lights, including the
tail-lamp; left his engine running; stood listening a moment to the
whispering whirr of his motor; then, taking the flash light from his
pocket, he climbed over the roadside wall and ran back across the
pasture toward the house.
As he approached the old house from the rear, no crack of light was
visible, and he began to think he might have been mistaken--that
perhaps the dancing glare of his own acetylenes on the windows had
made it seem as though they were illuminated from within.
Cautiously he prowled along the rear under the kitchen windows, turned
the corner, and went to the front porch.
He had made no mistake; a glimmer was visible between the edge of the
lowered shade and the window casing.
Was it some impudent tramp who had preëmpted this lonely house for a
night's lodging? Was it, possibly, a neighbour who had taken charge in
return for a garden to cultivate and a place to sleep in? Yet, how
could it be the latter when he himself had the keys to the house?
Moreover, such an arrangement could scarcely have been made by Rue
Carew without his being told of it.
Then he remembered what the Princess Mistchenka had said in her cable
message, that somebody might break into the house and steal the
olive-wood box unless he hastened to Brookhollow and secured it
immediately.
Was this what was being done now? Had somebody broken in for that
purpose? And who might it be?
A slight chill, not entirely agreeable, passed over Neeland. A rather
warm sensation of irritation succeeded it; he mounted the steps,
crossed the verandah, went to the door and tried the knob very
cautiously. The door was locked; whoever might be inside either
possessed a key that fitted or else must have entered by forcing a
window.
But Neeland had neither time nor inclination to prowl around and
investigate; he had a duty to fulfil, a train to catch, and a steamer
to connect with the next morning. Besides, he was getting madder every
second.
So he fitted his key to the door, careless of what noise he made,
unlocked and pushed it open, and started to cross the threshold.
Instantly the light in the adjoining room grew dim. At the same moment
his quick ear caught a sound as though somebody had blown out the
turned-down flame; and he found himself facing total darkness.
"Who the devil's in there!" he called, flashing his electric pocket
lamp. "Come out, whoever you are. You've no business in this house,
and you know it!" And he entered the silent room.
His flash light revealed nothing except dining-room furniture in
disorder, the doors of a cupboard standing open--one door still gently
swinging on its hinges.
The invisible hand that had moved it could not be far away. Neeland,
throwing his light right and left, caught a glimpse of another door
closing stealthily, ran forward and jerked it open. His lamp
illuminated an empty passageway; he hurried through it to the door
that closed the farther end, tore it open, and deluged the
sitting-room with his blinding light.
Full in the glare, her face as white as the light itself, stood a
woman. And just in time his eyes caught the glitter of a weapon in her
stiffly extended hand; and he snapped off his light and ducked as the
level pistol-flame darted through the darkness.
The next second he had her in his grasp; held her writhing and
twisting; and, through the confused trample and heavy breathing, he
noticed a curious crackling noise as though the clothing she wore were
made of paper.
The struggle in pitch darkness was violent but brief; she managed to
fire again as he caught her right arm and felt along it until he
touched the desperately clenched pistol. Then, still clutching her
closed fingers, he pulled the flash light from his side pocket and
threw its full radiance straight into her face.
"Let go your pistol," he breathed.
She strove doggedly to retain it, but her slender fingers slowly
relaxed under his merciless grip; the pistol fell; and he kicked the
pearl-handled, nickel-plated weapon across the dusty board floor.
They both were panting; her right arm, rigid, still remained in his
powerful clutch. He released it presently, stepped back, and played
the light over her from head to foot.
She was deathly white. Under her smart straw hat, which had been
pushed awry, the contrast between her black hair and eyes and her
chalky skin was startling.
"What are you doing in this house?" he demanded, still breathing
heavily from exertion and excitement.
She made an effort:
"Is it your house?" she gasped.
"It isn't yours, is it?" he retorted.
She made no answer.
"Why did you shoot at me?"
She lifted her black eyes and stared at him. Her breast rose and fell
with her rapid breathing, and she placed both hands over it as though
to quiet it.
"Come," he said, "I'm in a hurry. I want an explanation from you----"
The words died on his lips as she whipped a knife out of her bosom and
flew at him. Through the confusion of flash light and darkness they
reeled, locked together, but he caught her arm again, jerking it so
violently into the air that he lifted her off her feet.
"That's about all for tonight," he panted, twisting the knife out of
her helpless hand and flinging it behind him. Without further
ceremony, he pulled out his handkerchief, caught her firmly, reached
for her other arm, jerked it behind her back, and tied both wrists.
Then he dragged a chair up and pushed her on it.
Her hat had fallen off, and her hair sagged to her neck. The frail
stuff of which her waist was made had been badly torn, too, and hung
in rags from her right shoulder.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
As she made no reply, he went over and picked up the knife and the
pistol. The knife was a silver-mounted Kurdish dagger; the engraved
and inlaid blade appeared to be dull and rusty. He examined it for a
few moments, glanced inquiringly at her where she sat, pale and mute
on the chair, with both wrists tied behind her.
"You seem to be a connoisseur of antiques," he said. "Your dagger is
certainly a collector's gem, and your revolver is equally out of date.
I recommend an automatic the next time you contemplate doing murder."
Walking up to her he looked curiously into her dark eyes, but he could
detect no expression in them.
"Why did you come here?" he demanded.
No answer.
"Did you come to get an olive-wood box bound with silver?"
A slight colour tinted the ashy pallor under her eyes.
He turned abruptly and swept the furniture with his searchlight, and
saw on a table her coat, gloves, wrist bag, and furled umbrella; and
beside them what appeared to be her suitcase, open. It had a canvas
and leather cover: he walked over to the table, turned back the cover
of the suitcase and revealed a polished box of olive wood, heavily
banded by some metal resembling silver.
Inside the box were books, photographs, a bronze Chinese figure, which
he recognised as the Yellow Devil, a pair of revolvers, a dagger very
much like the one he had wrested from her. _But there were no military
plans there._
He turned to his prisoner:
"Is everything here?" he asked sharply.
"Yes."
He picked up her wrist bag and opened it, but discovered only some
money, a handkerchief, a spool of thread and packet of needles.
There was a glass lamp on the table. He managed to light it finally;
turned off his flash light, and examined the contents of the box again
thoroughly. Then he came back to where she was seated.
"Get up," he said.
She looked at him sullenly without moving.
"I'm in a hurry," he repeated; "get up. I'm going to search you."
At that she bounded to her feet.
"What!" she exclaimed furiously.
But he caught hold of her, held her, untied the handkerchief, freeing
her wrists.
"Now, pull out those papers you have concealed under your clothing,"
he said impatiently. And, as she made no motion to comply: "If you
don't, I'll do it for you!"
"You dare lay your hand on me!" she flamed.
"You treacherous little cat, do you think I'll hesitate?" he retorted.
"Do you imagine I retain any respect for you or your person? Give me
those papers!"
"I have no papers!"
"You are lying. Listen to me once for all; I've a train to catch and a
steamer to catch, and I'm going to do both. And if you don't instantly
hand out those papers you've concealed I'll have no more compunction
in taking them by force than I'd have in stripping an ear of corn!
Make up your mind and make it up quick!"
"You mean you'd strip--_me_!" she stammered, scarlet to her hair.
"That's what I mean, you lying little thief. That's just what I mean.
Kick and squall as you like, I'll take those papers with me if I have
to take your clothing too!"
Breathless, infuriated, she looked desperately around her, caught
sight of the Kurdish dagger, leaped at it; and for the third time
found herself struggling in his arms.
"Don't!" she gasped. "Let me go! I--I'll give you what you want----"
"Do you mean it?"
"Yes."
He released the dishevelled girl, who shrank away from him. But the
devil himself glowed in her black eyes.
"Go out of the room," she said, "if I'm to get the papers for you!"
"I can't trust you," he answered. "I'll turn my back." And he walked
over to the olive-wood box, where the weapons lay.
Standing there he heard, presently, the rustle of crumpling papers,
heard a half-smothered sob, waited, listening, alert for further
treachery on her part.
"Hurry!" he said.
A board creaked.
"Don't move again!" he cried. The floor boards creaked once more; and
he turned like a flash to find her in her stocking feet, already
halfway to where he stood. In either hand she held out a bundle of
papers; and, as they faced each other, she took another step toward
him.
"Stand where you are," he warned her. "Throw those papers on the
floor!"
"I----"
"Do you hear!"
Looking him straight in the eyes she opened both hands; the papers
fell at her feet, and with them dropped the two dagger-like steel pins
which had held her hat.
"Now, go and put on your shoes," he said contemptuously, picking up
the papers and running over them. When he had counted them, he came
back to where she was standing.
"Where are the others?"
"What others?"
"The remainder of the papers! You little devil, they're wrapped around
your body! Go into that pantry! Go quick! Undress and throw out every
rag you wear!"
She drew a deep, quivering breath, turned, entered the pantry and
closed the door. Presently the door opened a little and her clothing
dropped outside in a heap.
There were papers in her stockings, papers stitched to her stays,
basted inside her skirts. A roll of drawings traced on linen lay on
the floor, still retaining the warmth of her body around which they
had been wrapped.
He pulled the faded embroidered cover from the old piano and knocked
at the pantry door.
"Put that on," he said, "and come out."
She emerged, swathed from ankle to chin, her flushed face shadowed by
her fallen mass of dark hair. He turned his flash light on the
cupboard, but discovered nothing more. Then he picked up her hat,
clothes, and shoes, laid them on the pantry shelf, and curtly bade her
go back and dress.
"May I have the lamp and that looking glass?"
"If you like," he said, preoccupied with the papers.
While she was dressing, he repacked the olive-wood box. She emerged
presently, carrying the lamp, and he took it from her hurriedly, not
knowing whether she might elect to throw it at his head.
While she was putting on her jacket he stood watching her with
perplexed and sombre gaze.
"I think," he remarked, "that I'll take you with me and drop you at
the Orangeville jail on my way to town. Be kind enough to start toward
the door."
As she evinced no inclination to stir he passed one arm around her and
lifted her along a few feet; and she turned on him, struggling, her
face convulsed with fury.
"Keep your insolent hands off me," she said. "Do you hear?"
"Oh, yes, I hear." He nodded again toward the door. "Come," he
repeated impatiently; "move on!"
She hesitated; he picked up the olive-wood box, extinguished the lamp,
opened his flash, and motioned with his head, significantly. She
walked ahead of him, face lowered.
Outside he closed and locked the door of the house.
"This way," he said coldly. "If you refuse, I'll pick you up and
carry you under my arm. I think by this time you realise I can do it,
too."
Halfway across the dark pasture she stopped short in her tracks.
"Have I _got_ to carry you?" he demanded sharply.
"Don't have me locked up."
"Why not?"
"I'm not a--a thief."
"Oh! Excuse me. What are you?"
"You know. Don't humiliate me."
"Answer my question! What are you if you're not a lady crook?"
"I'm employed--as _you_ are! Play the game fairly." She halted in the
dark pasture, but he motioned her to go forward.
"If you don't keep on walking," he said, "I'll pick you up as I would
a pet cat and carry you. Now, then, once more, who are you working
for? By whom are you employed, if you're not a plain thief?"
"The--Turkish Embassy."
"What!"
"You knew it," she said in a low voice, walking through the darkness
beside him.
"What is your name?" he insisted.
"Dumont."
"What else?"
"Ilse Dumont."
"That's French."
"It's Alsatian German."
"All right. Now, why did you break into that house?"
"To take what you took."
"To steal these papers for the Turkish Embassy?"
"To _take_ them."
"For the Turkish Ambassador!" he repeated incredulously.
"No; for his military attaché."
"What are you, a spy?"
"You knew it well enough. You are one, also. But you have treated me
as though I were a thief. You'll be killed for it, I hope."
"You think I'm a spy?" he asked, astonished.
"What else are you?"
"A spy?" he repeated. "Is _that_ what _you_ are? And you suppose me to
be one, too? That's funny. That's extremely----" He checked himself,
looked around at her. "What are you about?" he demanded. "What's that
in your hand?"
"A cigarette."
They had arrived at the road. He got over the wall with the box; she
vaulted it lightly.
In the darkness he caught the low, steady throbbing of his engine, and
presently distinguished the car standing where he had left it.
"Get in," he said briefly.
"I am not a thief! Are you going to lay that charge against me?"
"I don't know. Is it worse than charging you with three separate
attempts to murder me?"
"Are you going to take me to jail?"
"I'll see. You'll go as far as Orangeville with me, anyhow."
"I don't care to go."
"I don't care whether you want to go or not. Get into the car!"
She climbed to the seat beside the wheel; he tossed in the olive-wood
box, turned on his lamps, and took the wheel.
"May I have a match for my cigarette?" she asked meekly.
He found one, scratched it; she placed a very thick and long cigarette
between her lips and he lighted it for her.
Just as he threw in the clutch and the car started, the girl blew a
shower of sparks from the end of her cigarette, rose in her seat, and
flung the lighted cigarette high into the air. Instantly it burst into
a flare of crimson fire, hanging aloft as though it were a fire
balloon, and lighting up road and creek and bushes and fields with a
brilliant strontium glare.
Then, far in the night, he heard a motor horn screech three times.
"You young devil!" he said, increasing the speed. "I ought to have
remembered that every snake has its mate.... If you offer to touch
me--if you move--if you as much as lift a finger, I'll throw you into
the creek!"
The car was flying now, reeling over the dirt road like a drunken
thing. He hung grimly to the wheel, his strained gaze fixed on the
shaft of light ahead, through which the road streamed like a torrent.
A great wind roared in his ears; his cap was gone. The car hurled
itself forward through an endless tunnel of darkness lined with
silver. Presently he began to slow down; the furious wind died away;
the streaking darkness sped by less swiftly.
"Have you gone mad?" she cried in his ear. "You'll kill us both!"
"Wait," he shouted back; "I'll show you and your friends behind us
what speed really is."
The car was still slowing down as they passed over a wooden bridge
where a narrow road, partly washed out, turned to the left and ran
along a hillside. Into this he steered.
"Who is it chasing us?" he asked curiously, still incredulous that any
embassy whatever was involved in this amazing affair.
"Friends."
"More Turks?"
She did not reply.
He sat still, listening for a few moments, then hastily started his
car down the hill.
"Now," he said, "I'll show you what this car of mine really can do!
Are you afraid?"
She said between her teeth:
"I'd be a fool if I were not. All I pray for is that you'll kill
yourself, too."
"We'll chance it together, my murderous little friend."
The wind began to roar again as they rushed downward over a hill that
seemed endless. She clung to her seat and he hung to his wheel like
grim death; and, for one terrible instant, she almost lost
consciousness.
Then the terrific pace slackened; the car, running swiftly, was now
speeding over a macadam road; and Neeland laughed and cried in her
ear:
"Better light another of your hell's own cigarettes if you want your
friends to follow us!"
Slowing, he drove with one hand on the wheel.
"Look up there!" he said, pointing high at a dark hillside. "See their
lights? They're on the worst road in the Gayfield hills. We cut off
three miles this way."
Still driving with one hand, he looked at his watch, laughed
contentedly, and turned to her with the sudden and almost friendly
toleration born of success and a danger shared in common.
"That was rather a reckless bit of driving," he admitted. "Were you
frightened?"
"Ask yourself how you'd feel with a fool at the wheel."
"We're all fools at times," he retorted, laughing. "You were when you
shot at me. Suppose I'd been seized with panic. I might have turned
loose on you, too."
For a while she remained silent, then she looked at him curiously:
"Were you armed?"
"I carry an automatic pistol in my portfolio pocket."
She shrugged.
"You were a fool to come into that house without carrying it in your
hand."
"Where would you be now if I had done that?"
"Dead, I suppose," she said carelessly.... "What _are_ you going to do
with me?"
He was in excellent humour with himself; exhilaration and excitement
still possessed him, keyed him up.
"Fancy," he said, "a foreign embassy being mixed up in a plain case of
grand larceny!--robbing with attempt to murder! My dear but
bloodthirsty young lady, I can hardly comprehend it."
She remained silent, looking straight in front of her.
"You know," he said, "I'm rather glad you're not a common thief.
You've lots of pluck--plenty. You're as clever as a cobra. It isn't
every poisonous snake that is clever," he added, laughing.
"What do you intend to do with me?" she repeated coolly.
"I don't know. You are certainly an interesting companion. Maybe I'll
take you to New York with me. You see I'm beginning to like you."
She was silent.
He said:
"I never before met a real spy. I scarcely believed they existed in
time of peace, except in novels. Really, I never imagined there were
any spies working for embassies, except in Europe. You are, to me,
such a rare specimen," he added gaily, "that I rather dread parting
with you. Won't you come to Paris with me?"
"Does what you say amuse you?"
"What _you_ say does. Yes, I think I'll take you to New York, anyway.
And as we journey toward that great metropolis together you shall tell
me all about your delightful profession. You shall be a Scheherazade
to me! Is it a bargain?"
She said in a pleasant, even voice:
"I might as well tell you now that what you've been stupid enough to
do tonight is going to cost you your life."
"What!" he exclaimed laughingly. "More murder? Oh, Scheherazade! Shame
on your naughty, naughty behaviour!"
"Do you expect to reach Paris with those papers?"
"I do, fair houri! I do, Rose of Stamboul!"
"You never will."
"No?"
"No." She sat staring ahead of her for a few moments, then turned on
him with restrained impatience:
"Listen to me, now! I don't know who you are. If you're employed by
any government you are a novice----"
"Or an artist!"
"Or a consummate artist," she admitted, looking at him uncertainly.
"I _am_ an artist," he said.
"You have an excellent opinion of yourself."
"No. I'm telling you the truth. My name is Neeland--James Neeland. I
draw little pictures for a living--nice little pictures for newspapers
and magazines."
His frankness evidently perplexed her.
"If that is so," she said, "what interests you in the papers you took
from me?"
"Nothing at all, my dear young lady! _I'm_ not interested in them. But
friends of mine are."
"Who?"
He merely laughed at her.
"_Are_ you an agent for any government?"
"Not that I know of."
She said very quietly:
"You make a terrible mistake to involve yourself in this affair. If
you are not paid to do it--if you are not interested from patriotic
motives--you had better keep aloof."
"But it's too late. I _am_ mixed up in it--whatever it may mean. Why
not tell me, Scheherazade?"
His humorous badinage seemed only to make her more serious.
"Mr. Neeland," she said quietly, "if you really are what you say you
are, it is a dangerous and silly thing that you have done tonight."
"Don't say that! Don't consider it so tragically. I'm enjoying it all
immensely."
"Do you consider it a comedy when a woman tries to kill you?"
"Maybe you are fond of murder, gentle lady."
"Your sense of humour seems a trifle perverted. I am more serious than
I ever was in my life. And I tell you very solemnly that you'll be
killed if you try to take those papers to Paris. Listen!"--she laid
one hand lightly on his arm--"Why should you involve yourself--you, an
American? This matter is no concern of yours----"
"What matter?"
"The matter concerning those papers. I tell you it does not concern
you; it is none of your business. Let me be frank with you: the papers
are of importance to a foreign government--to the German Government.
And in no way do they threaten your people or your country's welfare.
Why, then, do you interfere? Why do you use violence toward an agent
of a foreign and friendly government?"
"Why does a foreign and friendly government employ spies in a friendly
country?"
"All governments do."
"Is that so?"
"It is. America swarms with British and French agents."
"How do you know?"
"It's my business to know, Mr. Neeland."
"Then that _is_ your profession! You really are a spy?"
"Yes."
"And you pursue this ennobling profession with an enthusiasm which
does not stop short of murder!"
"I had no choice."
"Hadn't you? Your business seems to be rather a deadly one, doesn't
it, Scheherazade?"
"Yes, it might become so.... Mr. Neeland, I have no personal feeling
of anger for you. You offered me violence; you behaved brutally,
indecently. But I want you to understand that no petty personal
feeling incites me. The wrong you have done me is nothing; the injury
you threaten to do my country is very grave. I ask you to believe that
I speak the truth. It is in the service of my country that I have
acted. Nothing matters to me except my country's welfare. Individuals
are nothing; the Fatherland everything.... Will you give me back my
papers?"
"No. I shall return them to their owner."
"Is that final?"
"It is."
"I am sorry," she said.
A moment later the lights of Orangeville came into distant view across
the dark and rolling country.