The Black Bag, Louis Joseph Vance [some good books to read .txt] 📗
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- Author: Louis Joseph Vance
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vacuous features—a resemblance to some one he had seen, or known, at some
past time, somewhere, somehow.
“I give it up. Guess I’m mistaken. Anyhow, five young Englishmen out of
every ten of his class are just as blond and foolish. Now let’s see how bad
he’s hurt.”
With hands strong and gentle, he turned the round, light head. Then, “Ah!”
he commented in the accent of comprehension. For there was an angry looking
bump at the base of the skull; and, the skin having been broken, possibly
in collision with the sharp-edged newel-post, a little blood had stained
and matted the straw-colored hair.
Kirkwood let the head down and took thought. Recalling a bath-room on the
floor above, thither he went, unselfishly forgetful of his predicament if
discovered, and, turning on the water, sopped his handkerchief until it
dripped. Then, returning, he took the boy’s head on his knees, washed the
wound, purloined another handkerchief (of silk, with a giddy border)
from the other’s pocket, and of this manufactured a rude but serviceable
bandage.
Toward the conclusion of his attentions, the sufferer began to show signs
of returning animation. He stirred restlessly, whimpered a little, and
sighed. And Kirkwood, in consternation, got up.
“So!” he commented ruefully. “I guess I am an ass, all right—taking all
that trouble for you, my friend. If I’ve got a grain of sense left, this is
my cue to leave you alone in your glory.”
He was lingering only to restore to the boy’s pockets such articles as he
had removed in the search for matches,—the matchbox, a few silver coins,
a bulky sovereign purse, a handsome, plain gold watch, and so forth. But
ere he concluded he was aware that the boy was conscious, that his eyes,
open and blinking in the candlelight, were upon him.
They were blue eyes, blue and shallow as a doll’s, and edged with long,
fine lashes. Intelligence, of a certain degree, was rapidly informing them.
Kirkwood returned their questioning glance, transfixed in indecision, his
primal impulse to cut-and-run for it was gone; he had nothing to fear from
this child who could not prevent his going whenever he chose to go; while
by remaining he might perchance worm from him something about the girl.
“You’re feeling better?” He was almost surprised to hear his own voice put
the query.
“I—I think so. Ow, my head!… I say, you chap, whoever you are, what’s
happened?… I want to get up.” The boy added peevishly: “Help a fellow,
can’t you?”
“You’ve had a nasty fall,” Kirkwood observed evenly, passing an arm
beneath the boy’s shoulder and helping him to a sitting position. “Do you
remember?”
The other snuffled childishly and scrubbed across the floor to rest his
back against the wall.
“Why-y … I remember fallin’; and then … I woke up and it was all dark
and my head achin’ fit to split. I presume I went to sleep again … I say,
what’re you, doing here?”
Instead of replying, Kirkwood lifted a warning finger.
“Hush!” he said tensely, alarmed by noises in the street. “You don’t
suppose—?”
He had been conscious of a carriage rolling up from the corner, as well as
that it had drawn up (presumably) before a near-by dwelling. Now the rattle
of a key in the hall-door was startlingly audible. Before he could move,
the door itself opened with a slam.
Kirkwood moved toward the stair-head, and drew back with a cry of disgust.
“Too late!” he told himself bitterly; his escape was cut off. He could run
up-stairs and hide, of course, but the boy would inform against him and….
He buttoned up his coat, settled his hat on his head, and moved near the
candle, where it rested on the floor. One glimpse would suffice to show him
the force of the intruders, and one move of his foot put out the light;
then—_perhaps_—he might be able to rush them.
Below, a brief pause had followed the noise of the door, as if those
entering were standing, irresolute, undecided which way to turn; but
abruptly enough the glimmer of candlelight must have been noticed. Kirkwood
heard a hushed exclamation, a quick clatter of high heels on the parquetry,
pattering feet on the stairs, all but drowned by swish and ripple of silken
skirts; and a woman stood at the head of the flight—to the American an
apparition profoundly amazing as she paused, the light from the floor
casting odd, theatric shadows beneath her eyes and over her brows, edging
her eyes themselves with brilliant light beneath their dark lashes, showing
her lips straight and drawn, and shimmering upon the spangles of an evening
gown, visible beneath the dark cloak which had fallen back from her white,
beautiful shoulders.
VIIIMADAME L’INTRIGANTE
“Mrs. Hallam!” cried Kirkwood, beneath his breath.
The woman ignored his existence. Moving swiftly forward, she dropped on
both knees by the side of the boy, and caught up one of his hands, clasping
it passionately in her own.
“Fred!” she cried, a curious break in her tone. “My little Freddie! Oh,
what has happened, dearie?”
“Oh, hello, Mamma,” grunted that young man, submitting listlessly to her
caresses and betraying no overwhelming surprise at her appearance there.
Indeed he seemed more concerned as to what Kirkwood, an older man, would
be thinking, to see him so endeared and fondled, than moved by any other
emotion. Kirkwood could see his shamefaced, sidelong glances; and despised
him properly for them.
But without attending to his response, Mrs. Hallam rattled on in the uneven
accents of excitement. “I waited until I couldn’t wait any longer, Freddie
dear. I had to know—had to come. Eccles came home about nine and said that
you had told him to wait outside, that some one had followed you in here,
and that a bobby had told him to move on. I didn’t know what—”
“What’s o’clock now?” her son interrupted.
“It’s about three, I think … Have you hurt yourself, dear? Oh, why
didn’t you come home? You must’ve known I was dying of anxiety!”
“Oh, I say! Can’t you see I’m hurt? ‘Had a nasty fall and must’ve been
asleep ever since.”
“My precious one! How—?”
“Can’t say, hardly … I say, don’t paw a chap so, Mamma … I brought
Eccles along and told him to wait because—well, because I didn’t feel so
much like shuttin’ myself up in this beastly old tomb. So I left the door
ajar, and told him not to let anybody come in. Then I came up-stairs. There
must’ve been somebody already in the house; I know I thought there was.
It made me feel creepy, rather. At any rate, I heard voices down below, and
the door banged, and somebody began hammerin’ like fun on the knocker.”
The boy paused, rolling an embarrassed eye up at the stranger.
“Yes, yes, dear!” Mrs. Hallam urged him on.
“Why, I—I made up my mind to cut my stick—let whoever it was pass me on
the stairs, you know. But he followed me and struck me, and then I jumped
at him, and we both fell down the whole flight. And that’s all. Besides, my
head’s achin’ like everything.”
“But this man—?”
Mrs. Hallam looked up at Kirkwood, who bowed silently, struggling to hide
both his amusement and perplexity. More than ever, now, the case presented
a front inscrutable to his wits; try as he might, he failed to fit an
explanation to any incident in which he had figured, while this last
development—that his antagonist of the dark stairway had been Mrs.
Hallam’s son!—seemed the most astounding of all, baffling elucidation
completely.
He had abandoned all thought of flight and escape. It was too late; in the
brisk idiom of his mother-tongue, he was “caught with the goods on.” “May
as well face the music,” he counseled himself, in resignation. From what he
had seen and surmised of Mrs. Hallam, he shrewdly suspected that the tune
would prove an exceedingly lively one; she seemed a woman of imagination,
originality, and an able-bodied temper.
“You, Mr. Kirkwood!”
Again he bowed, grinning awry.
She rose suddenly. “You will be good enough to explain your presence here,”
she informed him with dangerous serenity.
“To be frank with you—”
“I advise that course, Mr. Kirkwood.”
“Thanks, awf’ly…. I came here, half an hour ago, looking for a lost purse
full—well, not quite full of sovereigns. It was my purse, by the way.”
Suspicion glinted like foxfire in the cold green eyes beneath her puckered
brows. “I do not understand,” she said slowly and in level tones.
“I didn’t expect you to,” returned Kirkwood; “no more do I…. But, anyway,
it must be clear to you that I’ve done my best for this gentleman here.” He
paused with an interrogative lift of his eyebrows.
“‘This gentleman’ is my son, Frederick Hallam…. But you will explain—”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Hallam; I shall explain nothing, at present. Permit me
to point out that your position here—like mine—is, to say the least,
anomalous.” The random stroke told, as he could tell by the instant
contraction of her eyes of a cat. “It would be best to defer explanations
till a more convenient time—don’t you think? Then, if you like, we can
chant confidences in an antiphonal chorus. Just now your—er—son is not
enjoying himself apparently, and … the attention of the police had best
not be called to this house too often in one night.”
His levity seemed to displease and perturb the woman; she turned from him
with an impatient movement of her shoulders.
“Freddie, dear, do you feel able to walk?”
“Eh? Oh, I dare say—I don’t know. Wonder would your friend—ah—Mr.
Kirkwood, lend me an arm?”
“Charmed,” Kirkwood declared suavely. “If you’ll take the candle, Mrs.
Hallam—”
He helped the boy to his feet and, while the latter hung upon him and
complained querulously, stood waiting for the woman to lead the way with
the light; something which, however, she seemed in no haste to do. The
pause at length puzzled Kirkwood, and he turned, to find Mrs. Hallam
holding the candlestick and regarding him steadily, with much the same
expression of furtive mistrust as that with which she had favored him on
her own door-stoop.
[Illustration: He helped the boy to his feet, and stood waiting.]
“One moment,” she interposed in confusion; “I won’t keep you waiting…;”
and, passing with an averted face, ran quickly up-stairs to the second
floor, taking the light with her. Its glow faded from the walls above and
Kirkwood surmised that she had entered the front bedchamber. For some
moments he could hear her moving about; once, something scraped and bumped
on the floor, as if a heavy bit of furniture had been moved; again there
was a resounding thud that defied speculation; and this was presently
followed by a dull clang of metal.
His fugitive speculations afforded him little enlightenment; and, meantime,
young Hallam, leaning partly against the wall and quite heavily on
Kirkwood’s arm, filled his ears with puerile oaths and lamentations; so
that, but for the excuse of his really severe shaking-up, Kirkwood had
been strongly tempted to take the youngster by the shoulders and kick him
heartily, for the health of his soul.
But eventually—it was not really long—there came the quick rush of Mrs.
Hallam’s feet along the upper hall, and the woman reappeared, one hand
holding her skirts clear of her pretty feet as she descended in a rush that
caused the candle’s flame to flicker perilously.
Half-way down,
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