The Black Bag, Louis Joseph Vance [some good books to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Louis Joseph Vance
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audacity, thunderstruck by a lightning-like foreglimpse of its possible
consequences. 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 feet
shuffling on the stone; and immediately—if he were to make a logical
deduction from the rasping and scraping sound within the door-casing—the
bell-pull was violently agitated, without, however, educing any response
from the bell itself, wherever that might be situate. After which, as if in
despair, the outsider again rattled and jerked the knob.
Be his status what it might, whether servant of the household, its
caretaker, or a night watchman, the man was palpably determined both to get
himself in and Kirkwood out, and yet (curious to consider) determined to
gain his end without attracting undue attention. Kirkwood had expected to
hear the knocker’s thunder, as soon as the bell failed to give tongue; but
it did not sound although there was a knocker,—Kirkwood himself had
remarked that antiquated and rusty bit of ironmongery affixed to the middle
panel of the door. And it made him feel sure that something surreptitious
and lawless was in process within those walls, that the confederate
without, having failed to prevent a stranger from entering, left unemployed
a means so certain-sure to rouse the occupants.
But his inferential analysis of this phase of the proceedings was summarily
abrupted by that identical alarm. In a trice the house was filled with
flying echoes, wakened to sonorous riot by the crash and clamor of the
knocker; and Kirkwood stood fully two yards away, his heart hammering
wildly, his nerves a-jingle, much as if the resounding blows had landed
upon his own person rather than on stout oaken planking.
Ere he had time to wonder, the racket ceased, and from the street filtered
voices in altercation. Listening, Kirkwood’s pulses quickened, and he
laughed uncertainly for pure relief, retreating to the door and putting an
ear to a crack.
The accents of one speaker were new in his hearing, stern, crisp, quick
with the spirit of authority which animates that most austere and dignified
limb 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 out
into the light, where I can see you.”
The response came in the sniffling snarl of the London ne’er-do-well, the
unemployable rogue whose chiefest occupation seems to be to march in the
ranks 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 ‘onest
fyce. W’y don’cher work?’ sezee. ”Ow can I?’ sez I. ”Ere’m I hout of
a 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 and
I’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 find
you round ‘ere again. March, I say!”
There was more of it—more whining explanations artfully tinctured with
abuse, more terse commands to depart, the whole concluding with scraping
footsteps, diminuendo, and another perfunctory, rattle of the knob as the
bobby, having shoo’d the putative evil-doer off, assured himself that
no damage had actually been done. Then he, too, departed, satisfied and
self-righteous, leaving a badly frightened but very grateful amateur
criminal to pursue his self-appointed career of crime.
He had no choice other than to continue; in point of fact, it had been
insanity just then to back out, and run the risk of apprehension at the
hands of that ubiquitous bobby, who (for all he knew) might be lurking not
a dozen yards distant, watchful for just such a sequel. Still, Kirkwood
hesitated with the best of excuses. Reassuring as he had found the
sentinel’s extemporized yarn,—proof positive that the fellow had had no
more right to prohibit a trespass than Kirkwood to commit one,—at the
same time he found himself pardonably a prey to emotions of the utmost
consternation and alarm. If he feared to leave the house he had no warrant
whatever to assume that he would be permitted to remain many minutes
unharmed 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 wan
illumination penetrating a dusty and begrimed fanlight, a broad hall
stretched indefinitely towards the rear of the building, losing itself in
blackness beyond the foot of a flight of stairs. Save for a few articles of
furniture,—a hall table, an umbrella-stand, a tall dumb clock flanked by
high-backed chairs,—it was empty. Other than Kirkwood’s own restrained
respiration not a sound throughout the house advertised its inhabitation;
not a board creaked beneath the pressure of a foot, not a mouse rustled in
the wainscoting or beneath the floors, not a breath of air stirred sighing
in the stillness.
And yet, a tremendous racket had been raised at the front door, within the
sixty seconds past! And yet, within twenty minutes two persons, at
least, had preceded Kirkwood into the building! Had they not heard? The
speculation seemed ridiculous. Or had they heard and, alarmed, been too
effectually hobbled by the coils of their nefarious designs to dare reveal
themselves, to investigate the cause of that thunderous summons? Or were
they, perhaps, aware of Kirkwood’s entrance, and lying perdui, in some
dark corner, to ambush him as he passed?
True, that were hardly like the girl. True, on the other hand, it
were possible that she had stolen away while Kirkwood was hanging in
irresolution by the passage to Quadrant Mews. Again, the space of time
between Kirkwood’s dismissal and his return had been exceedingly brief;
whatever her errand, she could hardly have fulfilled it and escaped. At
that moment she might be in the power and at the mercy of him who had
followed her; providing he were not friendly. And in that case, what
torment and what peril might not be hers?
Spurred by solicitude, the young man put personal apprehensions in his
pocket and forgot them, cautiously picking his way through the gloom to the
foot of the stairs. There, by the newel-post, he paused. Darkness walled
him about. Overhead the steps vanished in a well of blackness; he could
not even see the ceiling; his eyes ached with futile effort to fathom the
unknown; his ears rang with unrewarded strain of listening. The silence
hung inviolate, profound.
Slowly he began to ascend, a hand following the balusters, the other with
his cane exploring the obscurity before him. On the steps, a carpet, thick
and heavy, muffled his footfalls. He moved noiselessly. Towards the top
the staircase curved, and presently a foot that groped for a higher level
failed 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 were
barely suggested in a ghostly dusk. By each he paused, listening, hearing
nothing.
His foot struck with a deadened thud against the bottom step of the
second flight, and his pulses fluttered wildly for a moment. Two
minutes—three—he waited in suspense. From above came no sound. He went
on, as before, save that twice a step yielded, complaining, to his weight.
Toward the top the close air, like the darkness, seemed to weigh more
heavily upon his consciousness; little drops of perspiration started out on
his forehead, his scalp tingled, his mouth was hot and dry, he felt as if
stifled.
Again the raised foot found no level higher than its fellows. He stopped
and held his breath, oppressed by a conviction that some one was near him.
Confirmation of this came startlingly—an eerie whisper in the night, so
close to him that he fancied he could feel the disturbed air fanning his
face.
“Is it you, Eccles?”
He had no answer ready. The voice was masculine, if he analyzed it
correctly. 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 was
half 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 electric
hand-lamp. The tremulous whisper told him something else—that the speaker
suffered from nerves as high-strung as his own. The knowledge gave him
inspiration. He cried at a venture, in a guarded voice, “Hands up!”—and
struck out smartly with his stick. Its ferrule impinged upon something soft
but heavy. Simultaneously he heard a low, frightened cry, the cane was
swept aside, a blow landed glancingly on his shoulder, and he was carried
fairly off his feet by the weight of a man hurled bodily upon him with
staggering force and passion. Reeling, he was borne back and down a step
or two, and then,—choking on an oath,—dropped his cane and with one hand
caught the balusters, while the other tore ineffectually at wrists of
hands that clutched his throat. So, for a space, the two hung, panting and
struggling.
Then endeavoring to swing his shoulders over against the wall, Kirkwood
released his grip on the hand-rail and stumbled on the stairs, throwing his
antagonist out of balance. The latter plunged downward, dragging Kirkwood
with him. Clawing, kicking, grappling, they went to the bottom, jolted
violently by each step; but long before the last was reached, Kirkwood’s
throat was free.
Throwing himself off, he got to his feet and grasped the railing for
support; then waited, panting, trying to get his bearings. Himself
painfully shaken and bruised, he shrewdly surmised that his assailant had
fared as ill, if not worse. And, in point of fact, the man lay with neither
move 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, than
able to distinguish it by power of vision, he endured interminable minutes
of trembling horror, in a witless daze, before he thought of his matchbox.
Immediately he found it and struck a light. As the wood caught and the
bright small flame leaped in the pent air, he leaned forward, over the
body, breathlessly dreading what he must discover.
The man lay quiet, head upon the floor, legs and hips on the stairs. One
arm had fallen over his face, hiding the upper half. The hand gleamed white
and delicate as a woman’s. His chin was smooth and round, his lips thin and
petulant. Beneath his topcoat, evening dress clothed a short and slender
figure. Nothing whatever of his appearance suggested the burly ruffian, the
midnight marauder; he seemed little more than a boy old enough to dress
for dinner. In his attitude there was something pitifully suggestive of a
beaten child, thrown into a corner.
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