Hushed Up! A Mystery of London
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“Certainly I’ll come,” I said, my curiosity at once aroused. “But what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing very alarming,” he laughed. “Nothing to worry over. I’ve been playing cards, and lost a bit, that’s all. Bring your cheque-book; I want to pay up before I leave. You understand. I know you’ll help me, like the good pal you always are.”
“Why, of course I will, old man,” was my prompt reply.
“I’ve got to pay up my debts for the whole week – nearly a thousand. Been infernally unlucky. Never had such vile luck. Have you got it in the bank? I can pay you all right at the end of next week.”
“Yes,” I said, “I can let you have it.”
“These people know you, and they’ll take your cheque, they say.”
“Right-ho!” I said; “I’ll get a taxi and be up with you in half-an-hour.”
“You’re a real good pal, Owen. Remember the address: Althorp House, Porchester Terrace,” cried my friend cheerily. “Get here as soon as you can, as I want to get home. So-long.”
And, after promising to hurry, I hung up the receiver again.
Dear old Jack always was a bit reckless. He had a good income allowed him by his father, but was just a little too fond of games of chance. He had been hard hit in February down at Monte Carlo, and I had lent him a few hundreds to tide him over. Yet, by his remarks over the ’phone, I could only gather that he had fallen into the hands of sharpers, who held him up until he paid – no uncommon thing in London. Card-sharpers are generally blackmailers as well, and no doubt these people were bleeding poor Jack to a very considerable tune.
I rose, dressed, and, placing my revolver in my hip pocket in case of trouble, walked towards Victoria Station, where I found a belated taxi.
Within half-an-hour I alighted before a large dark house about half-way up Porchester Terrace, Bayswater, standing back from the road, with small garden in front; a house with closely-shuttered windows, the only light showing being that in the fanlight over the door.
My approaching taxi was being watched for, I suppose, for as I crossed the gravel the door fell back, and a smart, middle-aged man-servant admitted me.
“I want to see Mr. Marlowe,” I said.
“Are you Mr. Biddulph?” he inquired, eyeing me with some suspicion.
I replied in the affirmative, whereupon he invited me to step upstairs, while I followed him up the wide, well-carpeted staircase and along a corridor on the first floor into a small sitting-room at the rear of the house.
“Mr. Marlowe will be here in a few moments, sir,” he said; “he left a message asking you to wait. He and Mr. Forbes have just gone across the road to a friend’s house. I’ll send over and tell him you are here, if you’ll kindly take a seat.”
The room was small, fairly well furnished, but old-fashioned, and lit by an oil-lamp upon the table. The air was heavy with tobacco-smoke, and near the window was a card-table whereat four players had been seated. The cigar-ash bore testimony to recent occupation of the four chairs, while two packs of cards had been flung down just as the men had risen.
The window was hidden by long curtains of heavy moss-green plush, while in one corner of the room, upon a black marble pedestal, stood a beautiful sculptured statuette of a girl, her hands uplifted together above her head in the act of diving. I examined the exquisite work of art, and saw upon its brass plate the name of an eminent French sculptor.
The carpet, of a peculiar shade of red which contrasted well with the dead-white enamelled walls, was soft to the tread, so that my footsteps fell noiselessly as I moved.
Beside the fireplace was a big inviting saddle-bag chair, into which I presently sank, awaiting Jack.
Who were his friends, I wondered?
The house seemed silent as the grave. I listened for Jack’s footsteps, but could hear nothing.
I was hoping that the loss of nearly a thousand pounds would cure my friend of his gambling propensities. Myself, I had never experienced a desire to gamble. A sovereign or so on a race was the extent of my adventures.
The table, the cards, the tantalus-stand and the empty glasses told their own tale. I was sorry, truly sorry, that Jack should mix with such people – professional gamblers, without a doubt.
Every man-about-town in London knows what a crowd of professional players and blackmailers infest the big hotels, on the look-out for pigeons to pluck. The American bars of London each have their little circle of well-dressed sharks, and woe betide the victims who fall into their unscrupulous hands. I had believed Jack Marlowe to be more wary. He was essentially a man of the world, and had always laughed at the idea that he could be “had” by sharpers, or induced to play with strangers.
I think I must have waited for about a quarter of an hour. As I sat there, I felt overcome by a curious drowsiness, due, no doubt, to the strenuous day I had had, for I had driven down to Ascot in the car, and had gone very tired to bed.
Suddenly, without a sound, the door opened, and a youngish, dark-haired, clean-shaven man in evening dress entered swiftly, accompanied by another man a few years older, tall and thin, whose nose and pimply face was that of a person much dissipated. Both were smoking cigars.
“You are Mr. Biddulph, I believe!” exclaimed the younger. “Marlowe expects you. He’s over the road, talking to the girl.”
“What girl?”
“Oh, a little girl who lives over there,” he said, with a mysterious smile. “But have you brought the cheque?” he asked. “He told us that you’d settle up with us.”
“Yes,” I said, “I have my cheque-book in my pocket.”
“Then perhaps you’ll write it?” he said, taking a pen-and-ink and blotter from a side-table and placing it upon the card-table. “The amount altogether is one thousand one hundred and ten pounds,” he remarked, consulting an envelope he took from his pocket.
“I shall give you a cheque for it when my friend comes,” I said.
“Yes, but we don’t want to be here all night, you know,” laughed the pimply-faced man. “You may as well draw it now, and hand it over to us when he comes in.”
“How long is he likely to be?”
“How can we tell? He’s a bit gone on her.”
“Who is she?”
“Oh! a little girl my friend Reckitt here knows,” interrupted the younger man. “Rather pretty. Reckitt is a fair judge of good looks. Have a cigarette?” and the man offered me a cigarette, which, out of common courtesy, I was bound to take from his gold case.
I sat back in my chair and lit up, and as I did so my ears caught the faint sound of a receding motor-car.
“Aren’t you going to draw the cheque?” asked the man with the pimply face. “Marlowe said you would settle at once; Charles Reckitt is my name. Make it out to me.”
“And so I will, as soon as he arrives,” I replied.
“Why not now? We’ll give you a receipt.”
“I don’t know at what amount he acknowledges the debt,” I pointed out.
“But we’ve told you, haven’t we? One thousand one hundred and ten pounds.”
“That’s according to your reckoning. He may add up differently, you know,” I said, with a doubtful smile.
“You mean that you doubt us, eh?” asked Reckitt a trifle angrily.
“Not in the least,” I assured him, with a smile. “If the game is fair, then the loss is fair also. A good sportsman like my friend never objects to pay what he has lost.”
“But you evidently object to pay for him, eh?” he sneered.
“I do not,” I protested. “If it were double the amount I would pay it. Only I first want to know what he actually owes.”
“That he’ll tell you when he returns. Yet I can’t see why you should object to make out the cheque now, and hand it to us on his arrival. I’ll prepare the receipt, at any rate. I, for one, want to get off to bed.”
And the speaker sat down in one of the chairs at the card-table, and wrote out a receipt for the amount, signing it “Charles Reckitt” across the stamp he stuck upon it.
Then presently he rose impatiently, and, crossing the room, exclaimed —
“How long are we to be humbugged like this? I’ve got to get out to Croydon – and it’s late. Come on, Forbes. Let’s go over and dig Marlowe out, eh?”
So the pair left the room, promising to return with Jack in a few minutes, and closed the door after them.
When they had gone, I sat for a moment reflecting. I did not like the look of either of them. Their faces were distinctly sinister and their manner overbearing. I felt that the sooner I left that silent house the better.
So, crossing to the table, I drew out my cheque-book, and hastily wrote an open cheque, payable to “Charles Reckitt,” for one thousand one hundred and ten pounds. I did so in order that I should have it in readiness on Jack’s return – in order that we might get away quickly.
Whatever possessed my friend to mix with such people as those I could not imagine.
A few moments later, I had already put the cheque back into my breast-pocket, and was re-seated in the arm-chair, when of a sudden, and apparently of its own accord, the chair gave way, the two arms closing over my knees in such a manner that I was tightly held there.
It happened in a flash. So quickly did it collapse that, for a moment, I was startled, for the chair having tipped back, I had lost my balance, my head being lower than my legs.
And at that instant, struggling in such an undignified position and unable to extricate myself, the chair having closed upon me, the door suddenly opened, and the man Reckitt, with his companion Forbes, re-entered the room.
CHAPTER SIX
A GHASTLY TRUTH
Ere I could recover myself or utter a word, the pair dashed towards me, seized my hands deftly and secured them behind the chair.
“What do you mean by this, you infernal blackguards!” I cried angrily. “Release me!”
They only grinned in triumph. I struggled to free my right hand, in order to get at my revolver. But it was held far too securely.
I saw that I had been cleverly entrapped!
The man with the pimply face placed his hand within my breast pocket and took therefrom its contents with such confidence that it appeared certain I had been watched while writing the cheque. He selected it from among my letters and papers, and, opening it, said in a tone of satisfaction —
“That’s all right – as far as it goes. But we must have another thousand.”
“You’ll have nothing from me,” I replied, sitting there powerless, yet defiant. “I don’t believe Marlowe has been here at all! It’s only a trap, and I’ve fallen into it!”
“You’ve paid your friend’s debts,” replied the man gruffly; “now you’ll pay your own.”
“I owe you nothing, you infernal swindler!” I responded quickly. “This is a pretty game you are playing – one which you’ve played before, it seems! The police shall know of this. It will interest them.”
“They won’t know through you,” laughed the fellow. “But we don’t want to discuss that matter. I’m just going to write out a cheque for one thousand, and you’ll sign it.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort!” I declared firmly.
“Oh yes, you will,” remarked the younger man. “You’ve got money, and you can easily afford a thousand.”
“I’ll not give you one single penny,” I declared. “And, further, I shall stop that cheque you’ve stolen from me.”
Reckitt had already seated himself, opened my cheque-book, and was writing out a draft.
When he had finished it he crossed to me, with the book and pen in hand, saying —
“Now you may as well just sign this at first, as at last.”
“I shall do no such thing,” was my answer. “You’ve entrapped me here, but you are holding me at your peril. You can’t frighten me into giving you a thousand pounds, for I haven’t it at the bank.”
“Oh yes, you have,” replied the man with the red face. “We’ve already taken the precaution to find out. We don’t make haphazard guesses, you know. Now sign it, and at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning you shall be released – after we have cashed your cheques.”
“Where is Marlowe?” I inquired.
“With the girl, I suppose.”
“What girl?”
“Well,” exclaimed the other, “her photograph is in the next room; perhaps you’d like to see it.”
“It does not interest me,” I replied.
But the fellow Forbes left the room for a moment and returned with a fine panel photograph in his hand. He held it before my gaze. I started in utter amazement.
It was the picture of Sylvia! The same that I had seen in Shuttleworth’s study.
“You know her – eh?” remarked Reckitt, with a grim smile.
“Yes,” I gasped. “Where is she?”
“Across the road – with your friend Jack Marlowe.”
“It’s a lie! A confounded lie! I won’t believe it,” I cried. Yet at that moment I realized the ghastly truth, that I had tumbled into the hidden pitfall against which both Shuttleworth and Sylvia had warned me.
Could it be possible, I asked myself, that Sylvia – my adored Sylvia – had some connection with these blackguards – that she had been aware of their secret intentions?
“Sign this cheque, and you shall see her if you wish,” said the man who had written out the draft. “She will remain with you here till eleven to-morrow.”
“Why should I give you a thousand pounds?” I demanded.
“Is not a thousand a small price to pay for the service we are prepared to render you – to return to you your lost lady-love?” queried the fellow.
I was dying with anxiety to see her, to speak with her, to hold her hand. Had she not warned me against this cunningly-devised trap, yet had I not foolishly fallen into it? They had followed me to England, and run me to earth at home!
“And supposing that I gave you the money, how do I know that you would keep faith with me?” I asked.
“We shall keep faith with you, never fear,” Reckitt replied, his sinister face broadening into a smile. “It is simply for you to pay for your release; or we shall hold you here – until you submit. Just your signature, and to-morrow at eleven you are a free man.”
“And if I refuse, what then?” I asked.
“If you refuse – well, I fear that you will ever regret it, that’s all. I can only tell you that it is not wise to refuse. We are not in the habit of being met with refusal – the punishment is too severe.” The man spoke calmly, leaning with his back against the table, the cheque and pen still in his hand.
“And if I sign, you will bring Sylvia here? You will promise me that – upon your word of honour?”
“Yes, we promise you,” was the man’s reply.
“I want to see Marlowe, if he is here.”
“I tell you he’s not here. He’s across the way with her.”
I believe, if I could have got to my revolver at that moment, I should have shot the fellow dead. I bit my lip, and remained silent.
I now felt no doubt that this was the trap of which Sylvia had given me warning on that moonlit terrace beside the Italian lake. By some unaccountable means she knew what was intended against me. This clever trapping of men was apparently a regular trade of theirs!
If I could but gain time I felt that I might outwit them. Yet, sitting there like a trussed fowl, I must have cut a pretty sorry figure. How many victims had, like myself, sat there and been “bled”?
“Come,” exclaimed the red-faced adventurer impatiently, “we are losing time. Are you going to sign the cheque, or not?”
“I shall not,” was my firm response. “You already have stolen one cheque of mine.”
“And we shall cash it when your bank opens in the morning, my dear sir,” remarked Forbes airily.
“And make yourselves scarce afterwards, eh? But I’ve had a good look at you, remember; I could identify you anywhere,” I said.
“You won’t have that chance, I’m afraid,” declared Reckitt meaningly. “You must think we’re blunderers, if you contemplate that!” and he grinned at his companion.
“Now,” he added, turning again to me; “for the last time I ask you if you will sign this cheque I have written.”
“And for the last time I tell you that you are a pair of blackguards, and that I will do nothing of the sort.”
“Not even if we bring the girl here – to you?”
I hesitated, much puzzled by the strangeness of the attitude of the pair. Their self-confidence was amazing.
“Sign it,” he urged. “Sign it in your own interests – and in hers.”
“Why in hers?”
“You will see, after you have appended your signature.”
“When I have seen her I will sign,” I replied at last; “but not before. You seem to have regarded me as a pigeon to pluck. But you’ll find out I’m a hawk before you’ve done with me.”
“I think not,” smiled the cool-mannered Reckitt. “Even if you are a hawk, you’re caged. You must admit that!”
“I shall shout murder, and alarm the police,” I threatened.
“Shout away, my dear fellow,” replied my captor. “No sound can be heard outside this room. Shriek! We shall like to hear you. You won’t have opportunity to do so very much longer.”
“Why?”
“Because refusal will bring upon you a fate more terrible than you have ever imagined,” was the fellow’s hard reply. “We are men of our word, remember! It is not wise to trifle with us.”
“And I am also a man of my word. You cannot obtain money from me by threats.”
“But we offer you a service in return – to bring Sylvia to you.”
“Where is her father?” I demanded.
“You’d better ask her,” replied Forbes, with a grin. “Sign this, and see her. She is anxious – very anxious to meet you.”
“How do you know that?”
“We know more than you think, Mr. Biddulph,” was the sharper’s reply.
His exterior was certainly that of a gentleman, in his well-cut dinner jacket and a fine diamond stud in his shirt.
I could only think that the collapsible chair in which I sat was worked by a lever from outside the room. There was a spy-hole somewhere, at which they could watch the actions of their victims, and take them unawares as I had been taken.
“And now,” asked Reckitt, “have you fully reflected upon the serious consequences of your refusal to sign this cheque?”
“I have,” was my unwavering reply. “Do as you will, I refuse to be blackmailed.”
“Your refusal will cause disaster to yourself – and to her! You will share the same fate – a horrible one. She tried to warn you, and you refused to heed her. So you will both experience the same horror.”
“What horror? I have no fear of you,” I said.
“He refuses,” Reckitt said, with a harsh laugh, addressing his accomplice. “We will now let him see what is in store for him – how we punish those who remain defiant. Bring in the table.”
Forbes disappeared for a moment and then returned, bearing a small round table upon which stood a silver cigar-box and a lighted candle.
The table he placed at my side, close to my elbow. Then Forbes took something from a drawer, and ere I was aware of it he had slipped a leathern collar over my head and strapped it to the back of the chair so that in a few seconds I was unable to move my head from side to side.
“What are you doing, you blackguards?” I cried in fierce anger. “You shall pay for this, I warrant.”
But they only laughed in triumph, for, held as I was, I was utterly helpless in their unscrupulous hands and unable to lift a finger in self-defence, my defiance must have struck them as ridiculous.
“Now,” said Reckitt, standing near the small table, “you see this!” and, leaning forward, he touched the cigar-box, the lid of which opened with a spring.
Next second something shot quite close to my face, startling me.
I looked, and instantly became filled with an inexpressible horror, for there, upon the table, lay a small, black, venomous snake. To its tail was attached a fine green silken cord, and this was, in turn, fastened to the candle. The wooden candle-stick was, I saw, screwed down to the table. The cord entered the wax candle about two inches lower than the flame.
I gave a cry of horror, whereat both men laughed heartily.
“Now,” said Reckitt, “I promised you an unexpected surprise. There it is! In half-an-hour the flame will reach the cord, and sever it. Then the snake will strike. That half-hour will give you ample time for reflection.”
“You fiends!” I cried, struggling desperately to free myself. In doing so I moved my head slightly, when the snake again darted at me like a flash, only falling short about an inch from my cheek.
The reptile fell back, recoiled itself, and with head erect, its cruel, beady eyes watching me intently, sat up ready to strike again.
The blood froze in my veins. I was horrified, held there only one single inch from death.
“We wish you a very good night,” laughed Forbes, as both he and his companion walked towards the door. “You will have made a closer acquaintance with the snake ere we cash your cheque in the morning.”
“Yes,” said Reckitt, turning upon me with a grin. “And Sylvia too will share the same fate as yourself, for daring to warn you against us!”
“No!” I cried; “spare her, spare her!” I implored.
But the men had already passed out of the room, locking the door securely after them.
I lay back silent, motionless, listening, not daring to move a muscle because of that hideous reptile closely guarding me.
I suppose ten minutes must have passed – ten of the most awful minutes of terror and disgust I have ever experienced in all my life – then a sound broke the dead stillness of the night.
I heard a woman’s loud, piercing scream – a scream of sudden horror.
Sylvia’s voice! It seemed to emanate from the room beyond!
Again it was repeated. I heard her shriek distinctly —
“Ah! No, spare me! Not that —not that!”
Only a wall divided us, yet I was powerless, held there face to face with a terrible and revolting death, unable to save her, unable to raise my hand in self-defence.
She shrieked again, in an agony of terror.
I lay there breathless, petrified by horror.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE FLAME OF THE CANDLE
I shuddered at the horrible fate to which those scoundrels had abandoned me.
Again the cruel flat head of the snake darted forth viciously to within a single inch of my left cheek. I tried to draw back, but to move was impossible, held as I was by that leathern collar, made expressly for securing the head immovable.
My eyes were fixed upon the steady candle-flame. It was burning lower and lower each moment. I watched it in fascination. Each second I grew nearer that terrible, revolting end.
What had happened to Sylvia? I strained my ears to catch any further sound. But there was none. The house was now silent as the grave.
That pair of scoundrels had stolen my cheque, and in the morning, after my death, would cash it and escape with the proceeds!
I glanced around that weird room. How many previous victims had sat in that fatal chair and awaited death as I was waiting, I wondered? The whole plot betrayed a devilish ingenuity and cunning. Its very character showed that the conspirators were no ordinary criminals – they were past-masters in crime.
The incidents of the night in London are too often incredible. A man can meet with adventures in the metropolis as strange, as exciting and as perilous as any in unknown lands. Here, surely, was one in point.
I remember experiencing a strange dizziness, a curious nausea, due, perhaps, to the fact that my head lay lower than my body. My thoughts became muddled. I regretted deeply that I had not signed the cheque and saved Sylvia. Yet were they not absolute blackguards? Would they have kept faith with me?
I was breathless in apprehension. What had happened to Sylvia?
By slow, imperceptible degrees the candle burned lower. The flame was long and steady. Nearer and nearer it approached that thin green cord which alone separated me from death.
Again the serpent hissed and darted forth, angry at being so near its prey, and yet prevented from striking – angry that its tail was knotted to the cord.
I saw it writhing and twisting upon the table, and noted its peculiar markings of black and yellow. Its eyes were bright and searching. I had read of the fascination which a snake’s gaze exercises over its prey, and now I experienced it – a fatal fascination. I could not keep my eyes off the deadly reptile. It watched me intently, as though it knew full well that ere long it must be victorious.
Victorious! What did that mean? A sharp, stinging pain, and then an agonizing, painful death, my head swollen hideously to twice its size, my body held there in that mechanical vice, suffering all the tortures of the damned!