The Black Bag, Page 4

  IV

  9 FROGNALL STREET, W. C.

  The covered alleyway gave upon Quadrant Mews; or so declared a noticepainted on the dead wall of the passage.

  Overhead, complaining as it swayed in the wind, hung the smirched andweather-worn sign-board of the Hog-in-the-Pound public house; wherefromescaped sounds of such revelry by night as is indulged in by the Britishworking-man in hours of ease. At the curb in front of the house ofentertainment, dejected animals drooping between their shafts, two hansomsstood in waiting, until such time as the lords of their destinies shouldsee fit to sally forth and inflict themselves upon a cab-hungry populace.As Kirkwood turned, a third vehicle rumbled up out of the mews.

  Kirkwood can close his eyes, even at this late day, and both see and hearit all again--even as he can see the unbroken row of dingy dwellings thatlined his way back from Quadrant Mews to Frognall Street corner: alldrab and unkempt, all sporting in their fan-lights the legend and lure,"Furnished Apartments."

  For, between his curiosity about and his concern for the girl, he was beingled back to Number 9, by the nose, as it were,--hardly willingly, at best.Profoundly stupefied by the contemplation of his own temerity, he yetreturned unfaltering. He who had for so long plumed himself upon his strictsupervision of his personal affairs and equally steadfast unconsciousnessof his neighbor's businesses, now found himself in the very act of pushingin where he was not wanted: as he had been advised in well-nigh as manywords. He experienced an effect of standing to one side, a witness ofhis own folly, with rising wonder, unable to credit the strength ofthe infatuation which was placing him so conspicuously in the way of asnubbing.

  If perchance he were to meet the girl again as she was leaving Number9,--what then? The contingency dismayed him incredibly, in view of the factthat it did not avail to make him pause. To the contrary he disregarded itresolutely; mad, impertinent, justified of his unnamed apprehensions, orsimply addled,--he held on his way.

  He turned up Frognall Street with the manner of one out for a leisurelyevening stroll. Simultaneously, from the farther corner, another pedestriandebouched, into the thoroughfare--a mere moving shadow at that distance,brother to blacker shadows that skulked in the fenced areas and unlivelyentries of that poorly lighted block. The hush was something beyond belief,when one remembered the nearness of blatant Tottenham Court Road.

  Kirkwood conceived a wholly senseless curiosity about the other wayfarer.The man was walking rapidly, heels ringing with uncouth loudness, canetapping the flagging at brief intervals. Both sounds ceased abruptly astheir cause turned in beneath one of the porticos. In the emphatic andunnatural quiet that followed, Kirkwood, stepping more lightly, fanciedthat another shadow followed the first, noiselessly and with furtivestealth.

  Could it be Number 9 into which they had passed? The American's heart beata livelier tempo at the suggestion. If it had not been Number 9--he wasstill too far away to tell--it was certainly one of the dwellings adjacentthereunto. The improbable possibility (But why improbable?) that the girlwas being joined by her father, or by friends, annoyed him with illogicalintensity. He mended his own pace, designing to pass whichever house itmight be before the door should be closed; thought better of this, andslowed up again, anathematizing himself with much excuse for being theinquisitive dolt that he was.

  Approaching Number 9 with laggard feet, he manufactured a desire to lighta cigarette, as a cover for his design, were he spied upon by unsuspectedeyes. Cane under arm, hands cupped to shield a vesta's flame, he stoppeddirectly before the portico, turning his eyes askance to the shadoweddoorway; and made a discovery sufficiently startling to hold him spellboundand, incidentally, to scorch his gloves before he thought to drop thematch.

  The door of Number 9 stood ajar, a black interval an inch or so in widthshowing between its edge and the jamb.

  Suspicion and alarm set his wits a-tingle. More distinctly he recalled thejarring bang, accompanied by the metallic click of the latch, when the girlhad shut herself in--and him out. Now, some person or persons had followedher, neglecting the most obvious precaution of a householder. And why? Whybut because the intruders did not wish the sound of closing to be audibleto her--or those--within?

  He reminded himself that it was all none of his affair, decided to pass onand go his ways in peace, and impulsively, swinging about, marched straightaway for the unclosed door.

  "'Old'ard, guvner!"

  Kirkwood halted on the cry, faltering in indecision. Should he take theplunge, or withdraw? Synchronously he was conscious that a man's figurehad detached itself from the shadows beneath the nearest portico and wasdrawing nearer, with every indication of haste, to intercept him.

  "'Ere now, guvner, yer mykin' a mistyke. You don't live 'ere."

  "How do you know?" demanded Kirkwood crisply, tightening his grip on hisstick.

  Was this the second shadow he had seemed to see--the confederate of him whohad entered Number 9; a sentry to forestall interruption? If so, the fellowlacked discretion, though his determination that the American should notinterfere was undeniable. It was with an ugly and truculent manner, if morewarily, that the man closed in.

  "I knows. You clear hout, or--"

  He flung out a hand with the plausible design of grasping Kirkwood by thecollar. The latter lifted his stick, deflecting the arm, and incontinentlylanded his other fist forcibly on the fellow's chest. The man reeled back,cursing. Before he could recover Kirkwood calmly crossed the threshold,closed the door and put his shoulder to it. In another instant, fumbling inthe darkness, he found the bolts and drove them home.

  And it was done, the transformation accomplished; his inability to refrainfrom interfering had encompassed his downfall, had changed a peaceable andlaw-abiding alien within British shores into a busybody, a trespasser, amisdemeanant, a--yes, for all he knew to the contrary, in the estimation ofthe Law, a burglar, prime candidate for a convict's stripes!

  Breathing hard with excitement he turned and laid his back against thepanels, trembling in every muscle, terrified by the result of his impulsiveaudacity, thunder-struck by a lightning-like foreglimpse of its possibleconsequences. Of what colossal imprudence had he not been guilty?

  "The devil!" he whispered. "What an ass, what an utter ass I am!"

  Behind him the knob was rattled urgently, to an accompaniment of feetshuffling on the stone; and immediately--if he were to make a logicaldeduction from the rasping and scraping sound within the door-casing--thebell-pull was violently agitated, without, however, educing any responsefrom the bell itself, wherever that might be situate. After which, as if indespair, the outsider again rattled and jerked the knob.

  Be his status what it might, whether servant of the household, itscaretaker, or a night watchman, the man was palpably determined both to gethimself in and Kirkwood out, and yet (curious to consider) determined togain his end without attracting undue attention. Kirkwood had expected tohear the knocker's thunder, as soon as the bell failed to give tongue; butit did not sound although there _was_ a knocker,--Kirkwood himself hadremarked that antiquated and rusty bit of ironmongery affixed to the middlepanel of the door. And it made him feel sure that something surreptitiousand lawless was in process within those walls, that the confederatewithout, having failed to prevent a stranger from entering, left unemployeda means so certain-sure to rouse the occupants.

  But his inferential analysis of this phase of the proceedings was summarilyabrupted by that identical alarm. In a trice the house was filled withflying echoes, wakened to sonorous riot by the crash and clamor of theknocker; and Kirkwood stood fully two yards away, his heart hammeringwildly, his nerves a-jingle, much as if the resounding blows had landedupon his own person rather than on stout oaken planking.

  Ere he had time to wonder, the racket ceased, and from the street filteredvoices in altercation. Listening, Kirkwood's pulses quickened, and helaughed uncertainly for pure relief, retreating to the door and putting anear to a crack.

  The accents of one speaker were new in
his hearing, stern, crisp, quickwith the spirit of authority which animates that most austere and dignifiedlimb of the law to be encountered the world over, a London bobby.

  "Now then, my man, what do you want there? Come now, speak up, and step outinto the light, where I can see you."

  The response came in the sniffling snarl of the London ne'er-do-well, theunemployable rogue whose chiefest occupation seems to be to march in theranks of The Unemployed on the occasion of its annual demonstrations.

  "Le' me alone, carntcher? Ah'm doin' no 'arm, officer,--"

  "Didn't you hear me? Step out here. Ah, that's better.... No harm, eh?Perhaps you'll explain how there's no harm breakin' into unoccupied'ouses?"

  "Gorblimy, 'ow was I to know? 'Ere's a toff 'ands me sixpence fer hopenin''is cab door to-dye, an', sezee, 'My man,' 'e sez, 'yer've got a 'onestfyce. W'y don'cher work?' sezee. ''Ow can I?' sez I. ''Ere'm I hout ofa job these six months, lookin' fer work every dye an' carn't find it.'Sezee, 'Come an' see me this hevenin' at me home, Noine, Frognall Stryte,''e sez, an'--"

  "That'll do for now. You borrow a pencil and paper and write it down andI'll read it when I've got more time; I never heard the like of it. This'ouse hasn't been lived in these two years. Move on, and don't let me findyou round 'ere again. March, I say!"

  There was more of it--more whining explanations artfully tinctured withabuse, more terse commands to depart, the whole concluding with scrapingfootsteps, diminuendo, and another perfunctory, rattle of the knob as thebobby, having shoo'd the putative evil-doer off, assured himself thatno damage had actually been done. Then he, too, departed, satisfied andself-righteous, leaving a badly frightened but very grateful amateurcriminal to pursue his self-appointed career of crime.

  He had no choice other than to continue; in point of fact, it had beeninsanity just then to back out, and run the risk of apprehension at thehands of that ubiquitous bobby, who (for all he knew) might be lurking nota dozen yards distant, watchful for just such a sequel. Still, Kirkwoodhesitated with the best of excuses. Reassuring as he had found thesentinel's extemporized yarn,--proof positive that the fellow had had nomore right to prohibit a trespass than Kirkwood to commit one,--at thesame time he found himself pardonably a prey to emotions of the utmostconsternation and alarm. If he feared to leave the house he had no warrantwhatever to assume that he would be permitted to remain many minutesunharmed within its walls of mystery.

  The silence of it discomfited him beyond measure; it was, in a word,uncanny.

  Before him, as he lingered at the door, vaguely disclosed by a wanillumination penetrating a dusty and begrimed fan-light, a broad hallstretched indefinitely towards the rear of the building, losing itself inblackness beyond the foot of a flight of stairs. Save for a few articles offurniture,--a hall table, an umbrella-stand, a tall dumb clock flanked byhigh-backed chairs,--it was empty. Other than Kirkwood's own restrainedrespiration not a sound throughout the house advertised its inhabitation;not a board creaked beneath the pressure of a foot, not a mouse rustled inthe wainscoting or beneath the floors, not a breath of air stirred sighingin the stillness.

  And yet, a tremendous racket had been raised at the front door, within thesixty seconds past! And yet, within twenty minutes two persons, atleast, had preceded Kirkwood into the building! Had they not heard? Thespeculation seemed ridiculous. Or had they heard and, alarmed, been tooeffectually hobbled by the coils of their nefarious designs to dare revealthemselves, to investigate the cause of that thunderous summons? Or werethey, perhaps, aware of Kirkwood's entrance, and lying _perdui_, in somedark corner, to ambush him as he passed?

  True, that were hardly like the girl. True, on the other hand, itwere possible that she had stolen away while Kirkwood was hanging inirresolution by the passage to Quadrant Mews. Again, the space of timebetween Kirkwood's dismissal and his return had been exceedingly brief;whatever her errand, she could hardly have fulfilled it and escaped. Atthat moment she might be in the power and at the mercy of him who hadfollowed her; providing he were not friendly. And in that case, whattorment and what peril might not be hers?

  Spurred by solicitude, the young man put personal apprehensions in hispocket and forgot them, cautiously picking his way through the gloom to thefoot of the stairs. There, by the newel-post, he paused. Darkness walledhim about. Overhead the steps vanished in a well of blackness; he couldnot even see the ceiling; his eyes ached with futile effort to fathom theunknown; his ears rang with unrewarded strain of listening. The silencehung inviolate, profound.

  Slowly he began to ascend, a hand following the balusters, the other withhis cane exploring the obscurity before him. On the steps, a carpet, thickand heavy, muffled his footfalls. He moved noiselessly. Towards the topthe staircase curved, and presently a foot that groped for a higher levelfailed to find it. Again he halted, acutely distrustful.

  Nothing happened.

  He went on, guided by the balustrade, passing three doors, all open,through which the undefined proportions of a drawing-room and boudoir werebarely suggested in a ghostly dusk. By each he paused, listening, hearingnothing.

  His foot struck with a deadened thud against the bottom step of thesecond flight, and his pulses fluttered wildly for a moment. Twominutes--three--he waited in suspense. From above came no sound. He wenton, as before, save that twice a step yielded, complaining, to his weight.Toward the top the close air, like the darkness, seemed to weigh moreheavily upon his consciousness; little drops of perspiration started out onhis forehead, his scalp tingled, his mouth was hot and dry, he felt as ifstifled.

  Again the raised foot found no level higher than its fellows. He stoppedand held his breath, oppressed by a conviction that some one was near him.Confirmation of this came startlingly--an eerie whisper in the night, soclose to him that he fancied he could feel the disturbed air fanning hisface.

  "_Is it you, Eccles_?"

  He had no answer ready. The voice was masculine, if he analyzed itcorrectly. Dumb and stupid he stood poised upon the point of panic.

  "_Eccles, is it you_?"

  The whisper was both shrill and shaky. As it ceased Kirkwood washalf blinded by a flash of light, striking him squarely in the eyes.Involuntarily he shrank back a pace, to the first step from the top.Instantaneously the light was eclipsed.

  "_Halt or--or I fire_!"

  By now he realized that he had been scrutinized by the aid of an electrichand-lamp. The tremulous whisper told him something else--that the speakersuffered from nerves as high-strung as his own. The knowledge gave himinspiration. He cried at a venture, in a guarded voice, "_Hands up_!"--andstruck out smartly with his stick. Its ferrule impinged upon something softbut heavy. Simultaneously he heard a low, frightened cry, the cane wasswept aside, a blow landed glancingly on his shoulder, and he was carriedfairly off his feet by the weight of a man hurled bodily upon him withstaggering force and passion. Reeling, he was borne back and down a stepor two, and then,--choking on an oath,--dropped his cane and with one handcaught the balusters, while the other tore ineffectually at wrists ofhands that clutched his throat. So, for a space, the two hung, panting andstruggling.

  Then endeavoring to swing his shoulders over against the wall, Kirkwoodreleased his grip on the hand-rail and stumbled on the stairs, throwing hisantagonist out of balance. The latter plunged downward, dragging Kirkwoodwith him. Clawing, kicking, grappling, they went to the bottom, joltedviolently by each step; but long before the last was reached, Kirkwood'sthroat was free.

  Throwing himself off, he got to his feet and grasped the railing forsupport; then waited, panting, trying to get his bearings. Himselfpainfully shaken and bruised, he shrewdly surmised that his assailant hadfared as ill, if not worse. And, in point of fact, the man lay with neithermove nor moan, still as death at the American's feet.

  And once more silence had folded its wings over Number 9, Frognall Street.

  More conscious of that terrifying, motionless presence beneath him, thanable to distinguish it by power of vision, he endured interminable min
utesof trembling horror, in a witless daze, before he thought of his match-box.Immediately he found it and struck a light. As the wood caught and thebright small flame leaped in the pent air, he leaned forward, over thebody, breathlessly dreading what he must discover.

  The man lay quiet, head upon the floor, legs and hips on the stairs. Onearm had fallen over his face, hiding the upper half. The hand gleamed whiteand delicate as a woman's. His chin was smooth and round, his lips thin andpetulant. Beneath his top-coat, evening dress clothed a short and slenderfigure. Nothing whatever of his appearance suggested the burly ruffian, themidnight marauder; he seemed little more than a boy old enough to dressfor dinner. In his attitude there was something pitifully suggestive of abeaten child, thrown into a corner.

  Conscience-smitten and amazed Kirkwood stared on until, without warning,the match flickered and went out. Then, straightening up with anexclamation at once of annoyance and concern, he rattled the box; it madeno sound,--was empty. In disgust he swore it was the devil's own luck, thathe should run out of vestas at a time so critical. He could not even saywhether the fellow was dead, unconscious, or simply shamming. He had littleidea of his looks; and to be able to identify him might save a deal oftrouble at some future time,--since he, Kirkwood, seemed so little ableto disengage himself from the clutches of this insane adventure! And thegirl--. what had become of her? How could he continue to search for her,without lights or guide, through all those silent rooms, whose walls mightinclose a hundred hidden dangers in that house of mystery?

  But he debated only briefly. His blood was young, and it was hot; it wasquite plain to him that he could not withdraw and retain his self-respect.If the girl was there to be found, most assuredly, he must find her. Thehand-lamp that had dazzled him at the head of the stairs should be his aid,now that he thought of it,--and providing he was able to find it.

  In the scramble on the stairs he had lost his hat, but he remembered thatthe vesta's short-lived light had discovered this on the floor beyondthe man's body. Carefully stepping across the latter he recovered hishead-gear, and then, kneeling, listened with an ear close to the fellow'sface. A softly regular beat of breathing reassured him. Half rising, hecaught the body beneath the armpits, lifting and dragging it off thestaircase; and knelt again, to feel of each pocket in the man's clothing,partly as an obvious precaution, to relieve him of his advertised revolveragainst an untimely wakening, partly to see if he had the lamp about him.

  The search proved fruitless. Kirkwood suspected that the weapon, like hisown, had existed only in his victim's ready imagination. As for the lamp,in the act of rising he struck it with his foot, and picked it up.

  It felt like a metal tube a couple of inches in diameter, a foot or soin length, passably heavy. He fumbled with it impatiently. "However thedickens," he wondered audibly, "does the infernal machine work?" As ithappened, the thing worked with disconcerting abruptness as his untrainedfingers fell hapchance on the spring. A sudden glare again smote him in theface, and at the same instant, from a point not a yard away, apparently, aninarticulate cry rang out upon the stillness.

  Heart in his mouth, he stepped back, lowering the lamp (which impishly wentout) and lifting a protecting forearm.

  "Who's that?" he demanded harshly.

  A strangled sob of terror answered him, blurred by a swift rush of skirts,and in a breath his shattered nerves quieted and a glimmer of common sensepenetrated the murk anger and fear had bred in his brain. He understood,and stepped forward, catching blindly at the darkness with eager hands.

  "Miss Calendar!" he cried guardedly. "Miss Calendar, it is I--PhilipKirkwood!"

  There was a second sob, of another caliber than the first; timid fingersbrushed his, and a hand, warm and fragile, closed upon his own in a passionof relief and gratitude.

  "Oh, I am so g-glad!" It was Dorothy Calendar's voice, beyond mistake."I--I didn't know what t-to t-think.... When the light struck your faceI was sure it was you, but when I called, you answered in a voice sostrange,--not like yours at all! ... Tell me," she pleaded, with palpableeffort to steady herself; "what has happened?"

  "I think, perhaps," said Kirkwood uneasily, again troubled by his racingpulses, "perhaps you can do that better than I."

  "Oh!" said the voice guiltily; her fingers trembled on his, and were gentlywithdrawn. "I was so frightened," she confessed after a little pause, "sofrightened that I hardly understand ... But you? How did you--?"

  "I worried about you," he replied, in a tone absurdly apologetic. "Somehowit didn't seem right. It was none of my business, of course, but ... Icouldn't help coming back. This fellow, whoever he is--don't worry;he's unconscious--slipped into the house in a manner that seemed to mesuspicious. I hardly know why I followed, except that he left the door anopen invitation to interference ..."

  "I can't be thankful enough," she told him warmly, "that you did interfere.You have indeed saved me from ..."

  "Yes?"

  "I don't know what. If I knew the man--"

  "You don't _know_ him?"

  "I can't even guess. The light--?"

  She paused inquiringly. Kirkwood fumbled with the lamp, but, whether itsrude handling had impaired some vital part of the mechanism, or whether thebatteries through much use were worn out, he was able to elicit only onefeeble glow, which was instantly smothered by the darkness.

  "It's no use," he confessed. "The thing's gone wrong."

  "Have you a match?"

  "I used my last before I got hold of this."

  "Oh," she commented, discouraged. "Have you any notion what he looks like?"

  Kirkwood thought briefly. "Raffles," he replied with a chuckle. "He lookslike an amateurish and very callow Raffles. He's in dress clothes, youknow."

  "I wonder!" There was a nuance of profound bewilderment in her exclamation.Then: "He knocked against something in the hall--a chair, I presume; at allevents, I heard that and put out the light. I was ... in the room above thedrawing-room, you see. I stole down to this floor--was there, in the cornerby the stairs when he passed within six inches, and never guessed it. Then,when he got on the next floor, I started on; but you came in. I slippedinto the drawing-room and crouched behind a chair. You went on, but I darednot move until ... And then I heard some one cry out, and you fell down thestairs together. I hope you were not hurt--?"

  "Nothing worth mention; but _he_ must have got a pretty stiff knock, to layhim out so completely." Kirkwood stirred the body with his toe, but the manmade no sign. "Dead to the world ... And now, Miss Calendar?"

  If she answered, he did not hear; for on the heels of his query banged theknocker down below; and thereafter crash followed crash, brewing a deep andsullen thundering to rouse the echoes and send them rolling, like voices ofenraged ghosts, through the lonely rooms.