The Terror Page 8

  She was unprepared for the declaration, and could only look at him wonderingly.

  ‘Think it over, my dear; and if you say “No”—well, I shall understand.’

  She was glad when Cotton came in at that moment and told her her father wished to see her about some domestic trifle. She did not go back to the room until Cotton came to the study with the request that he should be allowed to lock up.

  ‘They’re all in bed except Mr Fane,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an idea he’s waiting for you, miss.’

  ‘Why should he be?’ demanded Redmayne wrathfully.

  Cotton did not know.

  It was a shrewd guess on his part. Ferdie Fane sat on the sofa, hoping against hope that the girl would return. There was something he wanted to tell her, an urgent message of warning he wished to give to her. He heard the door click and turned quickly. It was the Reverend Mr Partridge.

  ‘Pardon me,’ said the clergyman, who seemed to have recovered something of his equilibrium; ‘I left a book here.’

  Fane did not speak until the white-haired man was turning to leave the room. Then:

  ‘You were awfully rattled, Mr Partridge.’

  ‘Rattled?’ The parson frowned. ‘That is a strange term to employ. I was naturally distressed to hear of this poor man’s death.’

  Fane grinned.

  ‘Cotton was more distressed—he had to pick up the pieces of your coffee cup,’ he said. ‘Will you sit down for a second?’

  The clergyman hesitated, and then sat down on the settee by Ferdie’s side.

  ‘What a terrible fate—poor soul!’ he muttered.

  ‘Silly—that was what was the matter with Connor,’ said Fane coolly. ‘You see, he wasn’t as clever as his pal—the other fellow wouldn’t have been so crude.’

  ‘The other fellow?’ Mr Partridge appeared to be puzzled.

  ‘Soapy Marks—you’ve never heard of him? O’Shea’s right-hand man. You’ve never heard of O’Shea? I’ll bet you’ve not only heard of him, but if you haven’t recognised him you’ll know him pretty soon.’

  The other man shook his head.

  ‘This is Greek to me. Whom am I to recognise?’

  ‘Soapy’s got brains,’ Fane went on. ‘I’m going to give them a chance.’

  Suddenly he reached out, gripped the white hair of the clergyman and pulled. The wig came away in his hand.

  ‘Soapy!’

  Soapy Marks leapt up.

  ‘What the hell—’ he began, but the face of Fane thrust into his.

  ‘Go whilst the going’s good,’ he said deliberately. ‘Go whilst there’s life in you. I’m telling you, as I told Connor. You’re asking for death—and you’ll get it!’

  ‘Well, I’ll take it,’ said Marks savagely. ‘That’s what! I’ll take anything that’s going.’

  Ferdie Fane nodded.

  ‘You never could take a warning, could you? Clever Mr Soapy—all brain and confidence!’

  ‘You can’t frighten me.’ Marks was breathing heavily. ‘You know what I’ve come for? My share of the swag—and I’m not going away till I get it!’

  ‘You’re going out feet first,’ said Fane sombrely.

  ‘I am, am I? You think you’re damned clever, but I’ll tell you something. I knew you the moment you told me about Connor. And there’s somebody else in this house who knows you—that guy Goodman. He’s no fool—he’s knocked about the world. I saw him looking at you.’

  Fane was startled.

  ‘Goodman? You’re crazy mad!’

  ‘Mad, am I? I was down in the village this afternoon, and he was putting calls through to London—making inquiries about you. That girl, Redmayne, was in the post office too. That’s made you sit up. What’ll you do now, my dear friend? Get Goodman out of the way. I know your methods—I know that old drunk trick of yours too.’

  Fane had recovered from his consternation.

  ‘Whether he knows or whether he doesn’t, I’m warning you,’ he said sternly. ‘You’ll go the way of Connor.’

  Marks moved to the door.

  ‘That’s fair warning. The man who gets me has got to be quick.’

  In another second he passed through the curtains which hid the long French windows. Fane heard the click of them as the man opened them and stepped into the night.

  Fane waited some time; he heard a step outside in the hall and slipped out through a door which would bring him to the lawn by another route.

  He saw the door open slowly. It was Mr Goodman. He came in, grumbling to himself, looking from table to table for his pipe. Presently he found it. He put it in his pocket and was walking slowly back to the door when he saw something on the ground, and, stopping, picked it up. It was the wig that Marks had dropped in his flight. He looked at this for a long time, and then, conscious of the draught which came through the open French windows, moved towards the closed curtains.

  His hand was on the point of drawing them back when two hands shot out, gripped him by the throat and drew him into the alcove.

  Mary was half undressed when she heard the struggle below; heard the cry of a man in pain, and, pulling on her gown, fled down the stairs. She pushed open the door of the hall; it was in darkness, as it had been the night before.

  ‘All right,’ said a voice, and the lights came on suddenly.

  Ferdie Fane was standing by the window, his coat and hair dishevelled.

  ‘Mr Goodman!’ she gasped. ‘I heard his voice—where is he?’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ he said.

  And then she saw the smear of blood across the white expanse of his shirt front…As she fell fainting to the ground he caught her in his arms and the blood of a murdered man stained her kimono.

  CHAPTER XIII

  IT was half-past two in the morning, and Monkshall was awake. Hallick’s mud-stained car stood at the door; the carpets were rolled up, in the search for hidden traps; and Mrs Elvery, in a pink dressing-gown, dozed and snored in the most comfortable arm-chair. There Hallick found her when he came in from a search of the grounds.

  ‘Take my advice and go to bed,’ he said, shaking her to wakefulness. ‘It’s nearly three o’clock.’

  Mrs Elvery blinked herself awake and began to cry softly.

  ‘Poor Mr Goodman! He was such a nice man, and there are so few bachelors left!’ she wailed.

  ‘We don’t even know that he’s dead yet,’ snapped Hallick.

  ‘There was blood all over the floor,’ she whimpered. ‘And that nice Mr Partridge—have you found him?’

  ‘That nice Mr Partridge,’ said Mr Hallick irritably, ‘is on his way to London. You needn’t worry about him; he’s an old lag, and his name is Soapy Marks.’

  Suddenly Mrs Elvery became galvanised to life.

  ‘Have you questioned Cotton? He’s been behaving very strangely this evening. Twice he’s been down to the cellar, and when he came up the last time his knees were covered with dust—and do you know why?’

  ‘I don’t want to know why,’ said the weary Hallick.

  ‘He’s searching for the gold that’s hidden in this house. Ah, that makes you jump, Mr Inspector.’

  ‘Superintendent,’ said Hallick coldly. ‘The gold in this house, eh? So you’ve got that O’Shea story, have you? Where did you get it?’

  ‘Out of my press cuttings,’ said Elvery triumphantly.

  ‘Will you kindly go to bed?’ snapped Hallick, and succeeded in hustling her from the room.

  His assistant, Sergeant Dobie, had a theory that needed a little investigation, and now that they were alone for a minute Dobie stated his views.

  ‘Redmayne? Nonsense! Why should he—?’

  ‘That’s what I was going to tell you, sir. Redmayne is broke; he borrowed all his money from Goodman. The first thing he did after the disappearance of Goodman was to go up into the old man’s room, open a box and take out a promissory note. Here it is.’

  Hallick examined the slip of paper thoughtfully.

  ‘Ge
t Redmayne here.’

  The colonel almost staggered into the room. His nerve was gone, he was the wreck of the man he had been.

  ‘I want to ask you a few questions,’ said Hallick brusquely, and Redmayne scowled at him.

  ‘I’m tired of answering questions,’ he snapped.

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ said the other sarcastically. ‘There’s a ghost in Monkshall.’ He produced the promissory note and held it out for the colonel to see. ‘Is that the secret of all the queer happenings in this house? Is that the real explanation of the Terror?’

  ‘It was money I borrowed,’ said Redmayne in a low voice.

  Hallick nodded.

  ‘Ten years ago you were the secretary of a military fund. There was an audit and a large sum was missing. You were almost on the point of being arrested when you found the money—you borrowed it from Goodman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An hour or two ago you were searching Goodman’s papers. Was it to find this?’ asked the detective sternly.

  ‘I refuse to be cross-examined by you,’ said Redmayne, with something of his old spirit. ‘You have no right to question me as to my private affairs.’

  Hallick shook his head.

  ‘Colonel Redmayne,’ he said quietly, ‘last night a man was murdered in your house; tonight a gentleman has disappeared in circumstances which suggest murder. I have every right to question you. I have even the right of arresting you, if I wish.’

  ‘Then arrest me.’ The colonel’s voice quavered.

  ‘I want you to realise the position you are in. There is somebody in this house whom no man has seen—somebody you are sheltering!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The shaft had struck home.

  ‘I am suggesting,’ Hallick went on, ‘that this loan of yours from Goodman was a blind; that at the time you borrowed it you had command of immense sums of money; that you bought this house to protect a desperate criminal wanted by the police—Leonard O’Shea!’

  ‘It’s a lie,’ said the other hoarsely.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you another,’ retorted Hallick. ‘Somewhere in this house there is hidden hundreds of thousands of pounds in gold, the proceeds of the Aritania robbery; somewhere in these underground rooms of yours is a man half-sane, half-mad.’

  The colonel cringed back.

  ‘I did my best to keep him away. Do you think I wanted him here—where my daughter is?’ he whined.

  ‘We’ll get the truth about this,’ said Hallick.

  He signalled to Dobie, who led the unresisting man to his study. Hallick followed, and, as the door closed behind them, Mr Ferdinand Fane came through the closed curtains. He had changed his clothes and was wearing a golfing suit.

  Going back to the window, he called softly and Mary came out of the darkness.

  ‘The coast is clear,’ he said extravagantly, ‘and nobody need ever know that you have committed the indiscretion of walking in the dark with me.’

  She pulled off her raincoat and dropped wearily into a chair.

  ‘It is part of the night’s madness,’ she said; ‘and yet I felt safer there than in the house.’

  ‘I never feel safe anywhere,’ said Ferdie. ‘I’m going to sleep in this room tonight—where’s Cotton?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A drink,’ he said, and rang the bell. Cotton came in so quickly that he might have been standing outside the door. His coat was wet, his boots muddy.

  ‘Hallo!’ Fane eyed him keenly. ‘Why have you been sneaking about the grounds, my young friend?’

  ‘Just looking round, sir. There’s no harm in that, is there?’ the man’s voice was hollow and tremulous.

  Then Mary remembered.

  ‘Cotton, you have been with the detectives. What do they say?’

  Fane laughed softly, and she interpreted his scorn.

  ‘I want to know,’ she said impatiently.

  ‘I’ll tell you what they say.’ He stared at her. ‘They think Mr Goodman’s dead—somewhere in this room.’ He leered at her. ‘That’s a queer idea, ain’t it?’

  She shuddered.

  ‘And they think that old parson’s dead too,’ he went on with relish. ‘I heard Dobie telling the superintendent that the parson must have come into the room when the fight was goin’ on and that the Terror killed ’em both!’

  ‘The Terror?’ she repeated.

  ‘That’s what they call him. They say he goes mad two hours every day. That’s a queer thing to happen, ain’t it, miss? Fancy havin’ a lunatic around, and nobody knows who he is. It might be you, sir—it might be me.’

  ‘Most likely you, I should think,’ said Fane sharply. ‘Cotton, bring me a pint of champagne.’

  ‘Haven’t you had enough tonight?’ pleaded Mary.

  He shook his head.

  ‘There’s no such thing.’

  She waited till Cotton was out of the room, then:

  ‘Mr Fane, what happened to Mr Goodman?’

  He made no attempt to answer her until Cotton had brought the wine and gone away again.

  ‘This really is champagne,’ he said as he poured out the foaming liquor. ‘Gosh, I’ve got a headache.’

  ‘I wish you’d have such a headache that you’d never drink again,’ she said passionately.

  ‘In other words, you wish I were dead?’ he suggested.

  He was disappointing her terribly; she had thought that in a time like this he would have been a help.

  And then a thought struck her.

  ‘What do you mean by “this really is champagne”?’ she asked.

  ‘I mean that this is the first drink of wine I’ve had for a week,’ he said. ‘Don’t ask me any more about my habits—I’m a modest man.’

  Was he serious? Was this drunkenness of his affected?

  ‘What happened tonight when I found you in this room?’ she asked. ‘When that terrible fight was going on?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know. Some feller hit me in the jaw. I began to feel that I wasn’t amongst friends.’

  Then suddenly he became unexpectedly embarrassed.

  ‘I say, would you really like me to—sort of—well, you know, look after you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. And yet she knew well enough.

  ‘I mean, to be around when you want somebody to protect you.’

  He had come closer to her, but he did not touch her.

  ‘Do you think you’re in a fit state to protect anybody?’ she asked, and knew that she was begging the question.

  ‘Do you know, Mary, that I’d do a tremendous lot for you? You see, Mary—’

  ‘Must you call me Mary?’ she asked.

  ‘Unless your name’s Jemima. You can call me Ferdie if you like.’

  ‘I don’t like—not at the moment,’ she said, a little out of breath.

  ‘Did Goodman tell you he was awfully keen on you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Poor Mr Goodman! Yes, he was very fond of me, and I liked him too.’

  She looked round suddenly and he saw her face.

  ‘What is the matter?’ he asked quickly.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ve got a horrible feeling that somebody is listening. I wish that man would come,’ she added inconsequently.

  ‘Expecting somebody?’ He was surprised.

  ‘Yes, another detective—Mrs Elvery calls him the great Bradley. He is coming tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Poor old blighter!’ he chuckled. ‘What’s the use of bringing in a feller like that? I’m as good as a thousand detectives. I’m as good as O’Shea.’ He laughed. ‘O’Shea! There’s a lad!’

  She stepped back from him.

  ‘I’ve heard of O’Shea,’ she said slowly. ‘What does he look like?’

  He laughed again.

  ‘Something like me—only not so good looking.’

  She nodded and her voice sank to a whisper.

  ‘You know
too well who O’Shea is.’

  The accusation took him aback.

  ‘Yesterday, when you spoke to that man Connor, I was at the window and I heard you threaten him.’

  He was silent.

  ‘I warned him,’ he said at last.

  As though to put an end to the conversation he wheeled an easy-chair until it faced the panelled wall, and dragged forward a screen which he placed at its back.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Sleep,’ was the laconic answer.

  ‘But why do you put the chair there?’ she asked in amazement.

  ‘Old monks’ door!’ he smiled. ‘Any ghost of a monk is bound to come through the monks’ door! If it was a ghost of a cook-general, she’d come through the kitchen door. You can’t tell me anything about ghosts.’

  She was compelled to laugh at the absurdity.

  Hallick came back at that moment with the colonel.

  ‘What the dickens are you doing?’ he asked.

  Ferdie had found a rug, left behind by Mrs Elvery, and this he was wrapping about himself.

  ‘I’m going to sleep.’

  ‘Sleep in your room,’ said Redmayne harshly.

  ‘Let him alone.’ Hallick was rather indulgent to this eccentric man.

  He felt a draught and pulled back the curtains. The windows were open.

  ‘Bolt this after we go out, Miss Redmayne, and don’t let anybody in unless you hear your father’s voice. We’re going into the grounds.’

  ‘You’d better go to your room, my darling,’ said the colonel, but she shook her head.

  ‘I’ll wait here.’

  ‘But, my dear—’

  ‘Leave her, leave her,’ said Hallick impatiently. ‘He’ll do her no harm.’ Ferdie, wrapped in the rug, had ensconced himself in the chair. He thought he heard her go out, but she was still there, and presently she peeped round the corner, and, seeing that his eyes were closed, switched out all the lights save one. She thought that she would speak to him, but changed her mind, tiptoed softly to the door and pulled it open. Her head was turned towards where Ferdie sat behind the screen. She did not see the man who suddenly appeared in the doorway, within inches of her. A tall shape, draped from head to foot in black, two eyes gleaming through the slits of the cowl.