Author: Fred M. White
Category: Mystery
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CHAPTER II
THE CRIMSON BLIND
David walked swiftly along, his mind in a perfect whirl. Now that once hehad started he was eager to see the adventure through. It was strange,but stranger things had happened. More than one correspondent with queerpersonal experiences had taught him that. Nor was Steel in the leastafraid. He was horribly frightened of disgrace or humiliation, butphysical courage he had in a high degree. And was he not going to savehis home and his good name?
David had not the least doubt on the latter score. Of course he woulddo nothing wrong, neither would he keep the money. This he preferredto regard as a loan--a loan to be paid off before long. At any rate,money or no money, he would have been sorry to have abandoned theadventure now.
His spirits rose as he walked along, a great weight had fallen from hisshoulders. He smiled as he thought of his mother peacefully sleeping athome. What would his mother think if she knew? But, then, nobody was toknow. That had been expressly settled in the bond.
Save for an occasional policeman the streets were deserted. It was alittle cold and raw for the time of year, and a fog like a pink blanketwas creeping in from the sea. Down in the Steine the big arc-lightsgleamed here and there like nebulous blue globes; it was hardly possibleto see across the road. In the half-shadow behind Steel the statue of theFirst Gentleman in Europe glowed gigantic, ghost-like in the mist.
It was marvellously still there, so still that David could hear thetinkle of the pebbles on the beach. He stood back by the gate of thegardens watching the play of the leaf silhouettes on the pavement,quaint patterns of fantastic designs thrown up in high relief by thearc-light above. From the dark foggy throat of St. James's Street camethe tinkle of a cycle bell. On so still a night the noise seemed bizarreand out of place. Then the cycle loomed in sight; the rider, muffled andhumped over the front wheel, might have been a man or a woman. As thecyclist flashed by something white and gleaming dropped into the road,and the single word "Come" seemed to cut like a knife through the fog.That was all; the rider had looked neither to the right nor to the left,but the word was distinctly uttered. At the same instant an arm droppedand a long finger pointed to the gleaming white square in the road. Itwas like an instantaneous photograph--a flash, and the figure hadvanished in the fog.
"This grows interesting," Steel muttered. "Evidently my shadowy friendhas dropped a book of rules in the road for me. The plot thickens."
It was only a plain white card that lay in the road. A few lines weretyped on the back of it. The words might have been curt, but they were tothe point:--
"Go along the sea front and turn into Brunswick Square. Walk along theright side of the square until you reach No. 219. You will read thenumber over the fanlight. Open the door and it will yield to you; thereis no occasion to knock. The first door inside the hall leads to thedining-room. Walk into there and wait. Drop this card down the gutterjust opposite you."
David read the directions once or twice carefully. He made a mental noteof 219. After that he dropped the card down the drain-trap nearest athand. A little way ahead of him he heard the cycle bell trilling as if inapproval of his action. But David had made up his mind to observe everyrule of the game. Besides, he might be rigidly watched.
The spirit of adventure was growing upon Steel now. He was no longerholding the solid result before his eyes. He was ready to see the thingthrough for its own sake. And as he hurried up North Street, alongWestern Road, and finally down Preston Street, he could hear the purringtinkle of the cycle bell before him. But not once did he catch sight ofthe shadowy rider.
All the same his heart was beating a little faster as he turned intoBrunswick Square. All the houses were in pitchy darkness, as theynaturally would be at one o'clock in the morning, so it was only withgreat difficulty that Steel could make out a number here and there. As hewalked slowly and hesitatingly along the cycle bell drummed impatientlyahead of him.
"A hint to me," David muttered. "Stupid that I should have forgotten thedirections to read the number over the fanlight. Also it is logical tosuppose that I am going to find lights at No. 219. All right, my friend;no need to swear at me with that bell of yours."
He quickened his pace again and finally stopped before one of the bighouses where lights were gleaming from the hall and dining-room windows.They were electric lights by their great power, and, save for the halland dining-room, the rest of the house lay in utter darkness. The cyclebell let off an approving staccato from behind the blankety fog as Steelpulled up.
There was nothing abnormal about the house, nothing that struck theadventurer's eye beyond the extraordinary vividness of the crimsonblind. The two side-windows of the big bay were evidently shuttered,but the large centre gleamed like a flood of scarlet overlaid with asilken sheen. Far across the pavement the ruby track struck into theheart of the fog.
"Vivid note," Steel murmured. "I shall remember that impression."
He was destined never to forget it, but it was only one note in the gamutof adventure now. With a firm step he walked up the marble flight andturned the handle. It felt dirty and rusty to the touch. Evidently theservants were neglectful, or they were employed by people who had smallregard for outward appearances.
The door opened noiselessly, and Steel closed it behind him. A Moorishlantern cast a brilliant flood of light upon a crimson carpet, a chair,and an empty oak umbrella-stand. Beyond this there was no atom offurniture in the hall. It was impossible to see beyond the dining-roomdoor, for a heavy red velvet curtain was drawn across. David's firstimpression was the amazing stillness of the place. It gave him a queerfeeling that a murder had been committed there, and that everybody hadfled, leaving the corpse behind. As David coughed away the lump in histhroat the cough sounded strangely hollow.
He passed into the dining-room and looked eagerly about him. The room washandsomely furnished, if a little conventional--a big mahogany table inthe centre, rows of mahogany chairs upholstered in morocco, fine modernprints, most of them artist's proofs, on the walls. A big marble clock,flanked by a pair of vases, stood on the mantelshelf. There were a largenumber of blue vases on the sideboard. The red distemper had faded to apale pink in places.
"Tottenham Court Road," Steel smiled to himself. "Modern, solid,expensive, but decidedly inartistic. Ginger jars fourteen guineas a pair,worth about as many pence. Moneyed people, solid and respectable, of themiddle class. What brings them playing at mystery like this?"
The room was most brilliantly lighted both from overhead and from thewalls. On the shining desert of the dining-table lay a small, flat parceladdressed to David Steel, Esq. The novelist tore off the cover anddisclosed a heap of crackling white papers beneath. Rapidly he flutteredthe crisp sheets over--seventy-five Bank of England notes for L10 each.
It was the balance of the loan, the price paid for Steel's presence. Allhe had to do now was to place the money in his pocket and walk out of thehouse. A few steps and he would be free with nobody to say him nay. Itwas a temptation, but Steel fought it down. He slipped the precious notesinto his pocket and buttoned his coat tightly over them. He had no fearfor the coming day now.
"And yet," he murmured, "what of the price I shall have to pay for this?"
Well, it was worth a ransom. And, so long as there was nothingdishonourable attached to it, Steel was prepared to redeem his pledge. Heknew perfectly well from bitter experience that the poor man paysusurious rates for fortune's favours. And he was not without a strangesense of gratitude. If--
Click, click, click. Three electric switches were snapped off almostsimultaneously outside, and the dining-room was plunged into pitchydarkness. Steel instantly caught up a chair. He was no coward, but he wasa novelist with a novelist's imagination. As he stood there the sweetest,most musical laugh in the world broke on his ear. He caught the swish ofsilken drapery and the subtle scent that suggested the fragrance of awoman's hair. It was vague, undefined, yet soothing.
"Pray be seated, Mr. Steel," the silvery voice said. "Believe me,
hadthere been any other way, I would not have given you all this trouble.You found the parcel addressed to you? It is an earnest of good faith. Isnot that a correct English expression?"
David murmured that it was. But what did the speaker mean? She asked thequestion like a student of the English language, yet her accent andphrasing were perfect. She laughed again noiselessly, and once more Steelcaught the subtle, entrancing perfume.
"I make no further apology for dragging you here at this time," the sweetvoice said. "We knew that you were in the habit of sitting up alone lateat night, hence the telephone message. You will perhaps wonder how wecame to know so much of your private affairs. Rest assured that we learntnothing in Brighton. Presently you may gather why I am so deeplyinterested in you; I have been for the past fortnight. You see, we werenot quite certain that you would come to our assistance unless we couldfind some means of coercing you. Then we go to one of the smartestinquiry agents in the world and say: 'Tell us all about Mr. David Steelwithout delay. Money is no object.' In less than a week we know all aboutBeckstein. We leave matters till the last moment. If you only knew howrevolting it all was!"
"So your tone seems to imply, madam," Steel said, drily.
"Oh, but truly. You were in great trouble, and we found a way to get youout. At a price; ah, yes. But your trouble is nothing compared withmine--which brings me to business. A fortnight ago last Monday you postedto Mr. Vanstone, editor of the _Piccadilly Magazine_, the synopsis of thefirst four or five chapters of a proposed serial for the journal inquestion. You open that story with a young and beautiful woman who is indeadly peril. Is not that so?"
"Yes," Steel said, faintly. "It is just as you suggest. But how--"
"Never mind that, because I am not going to tell you. In commonparlance--is not that the word?--that woman is in a frightful fix.There is nothing strained about your heroine's situation, because Ihave heard of people being in a similar plight before. Mr. Steel, Iwant you to tell me truthfully and candidly, can you see the way clearto save your heroine? Oh, I don't mean by the long arm of coincidenceor other favourite ruses known to your craft. I mean by common sense,logical methods, by brilliant ruses, by Machiavelian means. Tell me, doyou see a way?"
The question came eagerly, almost imploringly, from the darkness. Davidcould hear the quick gasps of his questioner, could catch the rustle ofthe silken corsage as she breathed.
"Yes," he said, "I can see a brilliant way out that would satisfy thestrictest logician. But you--"
"Thank Heaven! Mr. Steel, I am your heroine. I am placed in exactly thesame position as the woman whose story you are going to write. Thesetting is different, the local colouring is not the same, but the samedeadly peril menaces me. For the love of Heaven hold out your hand tosave a lonely and desperate woman whose only crime is that she is richand beautiful. Providence had placed in my hands the gist of yourheroine's story. Hence this masquerade; hence the fact that you are hereto-night. I have helped _you_--help _me_ in return."
It was some time before Steel spoke.
"It shall be as you wish," he said. "I will tell you how I propose tosave my heroine. Her sufferings are fiction; yours will be real. But ifyou are to be saved by the same means, Heaven help you to bear thetroubles that are in front of you. Before God, it would be more mercifulfor me to be silent and let you go your own way."