The Terror Read online

  She had no warning, no premonition of her danger, till an arm like steel slipped round her waist and a great hand covered her mouth.

  She looked round, frozen with horror; saw the gleam of those gloomy eyes and went limp in the arms of the black monk.

  Without a sound he lifted her into the passage, closed the door softly behind him, and carried her, as though she had no weight, past the door of her father’s study to a little room that was used as a store. Had she been conscious, she would have remembered the big trap-door in the middle of the room which was always fastened. Stooping, he pulled the trap open, and, hoisting her to his shoulder, descended a flight of stone stairs. He left her for a moment, came back and fastened the trap from the inside.

  CHAPTER XIV

  HALLICK and the colonel visited the men they had stationed in the grounds, but nothing had been seen of the mysterious apparition, nor had any trace been found of Goodman or Marks.

  ‘Marks is in London by now,’ said Hallick as they squelched across the sodden grass to the house. ‘He won’t take much finding.’

  ‘Why did he come here?’

  ‘To get the stuff that’s hidden here—the gold your friend, O’Shea, has cached somewhere in this house,’ said Hallick. ‘I am taking O’Shea tonight, and I advise you to keep out of the way, because I have an idea somebody is going to be badly hurt. My suggestion to you is that you take your daughter to London tonight; use one of my cars.’

  ‘She will not go. How can I explain to her—?’ began the colonel.

  ‘There’s no need for explanations,’ said the other shortly. ‘You can tell her the truth, or you can wait till the case comes for trial. O’Shea, I presume, gave you the money to buy this house.’

  ‘He had already bought it, before the robbery,’ said the colonel. ‘I was in a terrible state of mind, expecting arrest at any moment. I can’t tell you how he got to know of my situation. I’d never heard of the man before. But when he offered me a loan, a fixed income, and a decent house over my head, I jumped at it. You see, I’m not a fighting soldier—I’m an army doctor; and when he explained that he had these little troubles I very naturally thought he’d be easy to deal with. I didn’t even know he was O’Shea till a year or so ago.’

  They trudged on in silence, and then Hallick said:

  ‘Have other men been here—other boarders?’ He mentioned two names, and the colonel nodded.

  ‘Yes, they came for a day or two, and then disappeared without paying their bills.’

  ‘They died here,’ said Hallick grimly; ‘and died at O’Shea’s hands—if they’d had the sense to tell me that they’d located O’Shea I could have saved them. But they wanted all the credit for themselves, I suppose, poor chaps!’

  ‘Killed them—here!’ gasped the colonel.

  By this time they had come to the house, and Hallick tapped gently on the French windows. There was no response. He tapped again, but there was no answer.

  ‘We’d better come to the door and wake Cotton,’ he said.

  It was a long time before Cotton heard the knocking, and a longer time before he opened the door.

  ‘Where’s Miss Redmayne?’ asked Hallick.

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Haven’t seen her, sir. There’s somebody sleeping here—he’s covered up with a blanket—gave me quite a start when I peeped round the screen.’

  ‘That’s Fane; leave him alone.’

  He turned on all the lights.

  And then suddenly a cold feeling came to this hardened detective, a sense of impending disaster.

  ‘Go and find your daughter,’ he said. Redmayne went out, and the detective heard his feet on the floor above. He came back in five minutes, white and shaking.

  ‘She’s not in her room and I don’t think she’s in the house. I’ve looked everywhere.’

  ‘Have you seen her, Cotton?’

  ‘No, sir, I haven’t seen the young lady at all.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Hallick.

  He picked up something from the floor; it was a girdle. The two men looked at one another.

  ‘He’s been here—the monk!’ said Redmayne in horror.

  Hallick had turned back the screen and dragged the chair, with its slumbering form, into the middle of the room.

  ‘Wake up, Fane—Miss Redmayne has disappeared.’

  With a quick movement he jerked away the corner of the rug that covered the sleeper’s face, and started back with a cry. For the man who lay in that chair was not Fane. He looked down at the dead face of Soapy Marks!

  CHAPTER XV

  MARY came to consciousness with a curious sensation of discomfort. She was lying on something hard and cold. She looked up and her eyes were attracted by a pale blue lantern which hung from a vaulted roof; and to her ears came the sound of music; the deep, bass notes of an organ.

  She struggled to a sitting position, and looked round. She was in a tiny chapel. In a recess stood a white-draped altar. Great wooden pillars supported the roof, and between these she saw a small organ, at which there was seated a black-robed monk.

  He heard her move and, looking round, came stealthily towards her. She was paralysed with fear and could not move.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he whispered. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of, my little lamb.’ The voice was muffled by the thick cowl that hid the face.

  ‘Who are you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Your friend—your lover—your worshipper!’

  Was she dreaming? Was this some hideous nightmare? No, it was real enough.

  She saw now that there were two entrances to the vault, one on either side. Two recesses whence stone steps wound upward.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked again, and slowly he pulled back the hood.

  She could not believe her eyes. It was Goodman. The grey hair was ruffled, the keen face less serene than she had known it. His eyes were like burning fires.

  ‘Mr Goodman!’ she whispered.

  ‘Leonard, you shall call me,’ he said in the same tone.

  He reached his trembling hands down and caught her by the shoulders.

  ‘Mary, my love, I have waited—oh, so long—for this glorious moment. For you are to me as a divinity.’

  She came to her feet and shrank back from him.

  ‘You’re not afraid of me, Mary?’ She drew to herself all her reserves of courage and strength, and shook her head.

  ‘No, Mr Goodman. Why should I be afraid of you? I’m glad that you’re alive. I was afraid—something had happened to you.’

  ‘Nothing could happen to me, my lamb.’ His smile was full of confidence. ‘Nothing could happen to your lover. The very gods protected him and reserved him for this glorious reward.’

  Her knees were trembling under her. She was sick, and would have fainted again, but by force of will maintained her consciousness.

  ‘Your lover,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve loved you all this time. Sometimes I’ve wanted you so that there was a fire in my heart and in my brain that was beyond my control.’

  He took her cold hand in his and brought it to his lips. She tried to pull it away, but he held it firmly, and his eyes smiled into hers. They were bigger than she had ever seen them—wide, glowing eyes that transfigured his face.

  ‘You’re not afraid of me?’ he breathed. ‘Not afraid of the lover who can give you all your heart’s desire?’

  Suddenly he caught her arm, and waved his hand about the room.

  ‘There’s money here; gold—thousands and thousands of golden pieces. Beautiful golden pieces, all hidden away. I hid them with my own hands.’

  And then he waxed confidential, and was more like his normal self.

  ‘This chapel is full of hollow places. I found deep cavities where the bodies of the dead monks lay. I took them out and purified their charnel houses with beautiful gold.’ He pointed. ‘That wall behind that old seat, these wooden pillars, are packed tight with it.’

  She tried to keep him in that sane
r mood.

  ‘What is this place, Mr Goodman? I’ve never seen it before.’

  He looked at her strangely, and a slow smile dawned on his face.

  ‘This is a sanctuary for my bride.’ His arms went round her, and she steeled herself to offer no resistance. ‘Men and women have been married here,’ he said. ‘Can’t you smell the fragrance of the bride’s hair? We will be married here,’ he nodded. ‘And men have died here—hundreds of years ago. We may die here too.’

  He laughed. She had heard that laugh in the night, and the horror of it turned her blood to ice.

  ‘I’ve buried men here—there!’ He pointed. ‘And there!’ He pointed again. ‘They came in search of me—clever men from Scotland Yard!’

  He knelt down on the floor and put his face to the joints of a stone slab.

  ‘There’s one there. Do you hear me, you dead man—you who came, so full of life, to catch O’Shea? Do you hear me? I am alive. And you—what are you?’

  ‘Please, please don’t!’ she gasped. ‘You are terrifying me!’

  He chuckled at this.

  ‘The Terror—ah! That is what they call me—the Terror that walks by night. Biblical—a strange thing to call poor old Goodman. I used to sit, smoking my pipe, in that room of ours’—he pointed up—‘and hear that stupid old woman talk of the Terror. And inside me my heart was laughing. She never knew how near she was.’ He reached out his long hand, and it clenched horribly.

  ‘Mr Goodman!’ She strove to bring him back to a rational level. ‘You’ll let me go now, won’t you? My father will give you anything you want, will do anything for you—he has been a doctor, you know.’

  Not once did his hand release the grip on her arm.

  ‘Your father?’ He was amused, and chuckled for a long time. ‘He’ll do as I tell him, because he’s afraid of me. You never thought he was afraid of me, but he is. He thinks I’m mad. That’s why he’s looking after me. I know he’s a doctor—of course he’s a doctor. Sometimes he used to lock me up in a cell. I used to scream and tear at the walls, but he kept me there. He’s mad—they’re all mad!’

  She was swooning with fright, and with a superhuman effort tore her arm from his grip and fled to the stairs. Before one foot was on the lowest step he had caught her and dragged her back again.

  ‘Not yet—not yet.’

  ‘Let me go.’ She did not struggle. ‘I swear I won’t attempt to run away again. You can believe me, can’t you?’ He nodded and released her. She crouched down on the stone seat before the altar.

  ‘I’ll play to you,’ he said, with sudden inspiration. ‘Lovely music—’

  As his fingers wandered over the keys he was talking disjointedly to himself, presently he began to play, so softly that his voice sounded harsh against that wonderful background of melody.

  ‘You’ve heard this old organ?’ He looked round over his shoulder at her. ‘I play to the dead and make them live! Old monks walk here—long lines of them, marching two and two. And people bring young brides to wed and old men to die. And sometimes I see men here that I know—dead men—’

  He dropped again into a conversational tone. Suddenly the music stopped, and he pointed to an invisible shape.

  ‘Look—Joe Connor!’

  She tried to pierce the gloom but saw nothing. Goodman was talking now, beckoning to the invisible shape.

  ‘Come here, Connor; I want to talk to you. Been to prison, have you? Poor fellow! And all because of that wicked man O’Shea. Come for your share of the swag? You shall have it, my boy.’

  The organ ceased. He went across and put his arm around something that was invisible to Mary, but was plain to his crazy eyes. And so he led the thing he saw to the stone seat she had vacated.

  ‘You shall have it, my boy. It’s all here, Connor—the good red gold that I got away with. Sit down, Connor—I want to tell you all about it. I’d bought this old house months before—you see, Connor? And I brought the gold here in the lorry by night, and I hid it in the hollow places. Weeks and months I worked, filling hollow pillars and the graves of old monks. Clever, eh, Connor? No wonder you smile.’

  He rose and stood behind the ghostly shape he saw.

  ‘I tell you this because you’re dead—and dead men never tell. And then I got Redmayne as a blind, put him in charge of the house. He had to do it, Connor’—he lowered his voice to a confidential note—‘because I had a hold on him. I used to go a little queer and he looked after me—that’s what I paid him for. I was nothing—he was the master of Monkshall. He, he—that’s how I fooled the police. Nobody dreamed that I was O’Shea. You want your share—damn you! You dog! I’ll choke the life out of you, you hound!’

  His voice rose to a yell as he gripped the spirit throat and, in his imagination, hurled it to the ground. He was kneeling on the floor now, his face demoniacal in its fury.

  And then he remembered the girl and looked round.

  ‘I’m frightening you.’ His voice was soft. He came nearer to her and suddenly clasped her in his arms.

  She screamed, but he hushed her.

  ‘I don’t want to frighten you. Don’t scream. I love you too much to frighten you.’ His lips sought hers, but she avoided them.

  ‘No, not yet—give me a little time.’ He loosed his hold on her.

  ‘But you will love me? Did you see those little doors in the passage walls? The old monks lived there. You and I will find a bridal suite there.’

  She was fighting desperately for time. At any moment this madness might pass. She knew now he was O’Shea—sane for twenty-two hours a day.

  ‘Wait. I want to talk to you, Mr Goodman. You said you loved me.’

  ‘You are God to me,’ he said reverently.

  ‘You would not want me to love you if I loved someone else, would you?’ His face changed at this.

  ‘Loved someone else? No, no. I would not ask it. But do you love someone else?’

  ‘Yes—I—I’m awfully fond of—of Mr Fane.’

  For a second he neither spoke nor moved, then his hand shot out to her throat. She thought she was doomed, but at that moment she was gripped by the arm and swung aside, and O’Shea looked into the levelled muzzle of an automatic.

  ‘I want you, O’Shea!’

  It was Fane’s voice, Fane’s arm that encircled her.

  ‘Come away from that switch. That’s right. I don’t want to be in the dark. Farther. Now stand still.’

  ‘Who are you?’ O’Shea’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

  ‘My name’s Bradley!’ said Fane quietly. ‘Inspector Bradley of Scotland Yard. I want you, O’Shea. For three years I have been waiting for this opportunity, and now I know all that I want to know.’

  O’Shea nodded.

  ‘You know what I have done to Marks?’

  ‘You killed him—yes.’

  ‘He tried to strangle me—I think he must have recognised me. His body—’

  ‘I found it behind the monks’ door and left it in my place. If he and Connor had taken my advice they would have been alive today.’

  O’Shea gave a deep sigh and smiled.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve given everybody a lot of trouble,’ he said blandly. ‘So you’re Bradley, the man who arrested Connor and the man who arrested our old friend, Soapy Marks, and now you have done the hat trick! Really, I deserve everything for not recognising you. Miss Redmayne, will you accept my apologies? I am afraid at times I get a little out of hand—a mere passing folly—um. May I take off this ridiculous robe?’ He stripped the black robe from him, slowly.

  ‘Be careful. He is not sane yet,’ said Mary in a low voice.

  He heard her.

  ‘Oh, my dear Miss Redmayne’—he smiled—‘you must be a very poor judge of sanity. And now, I suppose, inspector—or is it superintendent?—you will marry this charming young lady who has so touchingly declared her love for you? I wish I could find you a little wedding present.’

  So quickly did he move that Bradley could not h
ave escaped death had not the foot of the assassin slipped. The knife struck one of the pillars, and in the impact the rotting wood broke and a stream of gold flowed from its hollow depth.

  O’Shea glared at the gold that had cost him so much, and then he began to laugh.

  ‘A wedding present,’ he chuckled.

  He was still laughing when Hallick and three detectives took him by car to London.

  THE END

  WHITE FACE

  DEDICATED

  TO MY DEAR FRIEND

  GEORGE DORAN

  CHAPTER I

  MICHAEL QUIGLEY had a fair working knowledge of perverse humanity, having acquaintance with burglars, the better class of confidence man, professional forgers, long firm operators, swindlers, ingenious and naïve, bank workers, bucket shop keepers and pickpockets. He did not know White Face because nobody knew him, but that was a pleasure deferred. Sooner or later, the lone operator would make a mistake and come within the purview of a crime reporter.

  Michael knew almost everybody at Scotland Yard and addressed chief constables by their first names. He had spent weekends with Dumont, the hangman, and had helped him through an attack of delirium tremens. He had in his room signed photographs of ci-devant royalties, heavy-weight champions and leading ladies. He knew just how normal and abnormal people would behave in almost any circumstances. But personal experience failed him in the case of Janice Harman, although he had heard of such cases.

  He could understand why a girl with no responsibilities (since she was an orphan) and three thousand pounds a year should want to do something useful in life and should choose to become a nurse in an East End clinic; other girls had allowed their enthusiasm for humanity to lead them into similar vocations, and Janice only differed from the majority in that she had not wearied of her philanthropy.

  She was very lovely, though he could never analyse the qualities which made for loveliness. She had amazingly clear eyes and a mouth that was red and sensitive—perhaps it was the quality of her skin. He was never sure—the only thing he was certain about was that he could look at her for hours and wanted to look at her for ever.