Crow's Inn Tragedy (25 page)

The inspector stepped inside, Steadman keeping close to him, and gave the word—“Chink-a-pin,” and at the same moment Steadman became aware of a figure veiled in black from head to foot standing motionless against the wall behind the door. The door closed after them with a snap in which Steadman fancied he heard something ominous. They found themselves in a long, rather wide passage down which they proceeded, the inspector still leading; their bare hands held out in front of them, thumb-tip joined to thumb-tip, finger-tip to finger-tip. On the door at the end of the passage the inspector knocked again so softly that it seemed impossible that he should be heard.

However, as if by magic, this door opened suddenly.

Inside, in contrast with the brightness in the passage, everything looked dark, but gradually Steadman made out a faint, flickering light. A soft, sibilant voice spoke, this time apparently out of the air, since there was no sign of any speaker:

“The Great Dane bites.”

“His enemies will bite the dust.” The inspector gave the countersign.

Once again they moved forward and found themselves in a narrow passage running at right angles to the first. Here, instead of bareness, were softly carpeted floors and heavy hangings on the walls, and a sickly, sweet smell as if of incense. The light, dim and flickering at first, grew stronger and more diffused. Steadman saw that the passage in which they stood served as an ante-chamber or vestibule to some larger room into which folding doors standing slightly ajar gave access. They were not alone, either. At a sign from the inspector Steadman had donned his yellow mask. In another moment shadowy hands had relieved him of his coat and were gently pushing him forward, and he saw faintly that there were other yellow clad forms flitting backwards and forwards. Between the half-open doors he could glimpse more light, golden, dazzling, while over everything there brooded a sense of mystery, of evil unutterable. In that moment there came over John Steadman a certainty of the danger of this enterprise to which they stood committed, and brave man though he was he would have drawn back if he could. But it was too late. With one hand beneath his yellow domino, clutching his automatic firmly he paced by the inspector's side into the Golden Room. As the first sight of it burst upon him he asked himself whether he could really be living in sober twentieth-century England, or whether he had not been translated into some scene out of the “Arabian Nights.”

The room was oblong in shape, the ceiling, pale yellow in colour, was low, across it sprawled great golden flowers and in the centre of each of them blazed, like some lovely exotic jewel, a radiant amber light. The walls of this extraordinary room were panelled in yellow too, and round about them were ranged twelve golden seats. Ten of them were occupied by figures, masked and dominoed as he and the inspector were. The two seats at the end of the room nearest to them were unoccupied, while at the opposite end stood a raised dais, also of gold; an empty golden chair, looking like a throne, stood upon it. Right in the middle of the room stood a great mimosa in full bloom, its powerful fragrance mingling with that other perfume that Steadman had sensed before. His feet sank into the pile of the carpet as he followed the inspector to the unoccupied chairs nearest to them. At the same moment the hangings at the back of the throne were parted and a tall figure came through, masked, and wearing the same kind of yellow domino as all the others. He seated himself upon the throne upon the dais. At the same moment a sweet toned bell began to ring slowly.

Steadman had hardly realized that there was any sound to be heard, but now he became conscious by its sudden cessation that there had been a low incessant hum going on around. Then the bell ceased, and the silence grew deadly. The very immobility of those yellow figures began to get on John Steadman's nerves, though up to now he would have denied that he possessed any. His eyes were fixed upon that figure in the chair on the dais. Silent, immobile, it sat, hands joined together in front like those of every other figure in the room; but in these hands there was a curious defect—the thumb was extraordinarily long, the first finger short, so that they looked to be of the same length. And, as Steadman noticed this, his fingers clutched his revolver and felt the cool metal of the police whistle. Of what use was it, he asked himself, surely no sound could reach the outside world from this terrible room. Suddenly he became conscious of a slight, a very slight movement close to him. Had the inspector moved, he wondered as he glanced round. And then the arms of his chair seemed to contract and lengthen; he felt himself gripped in a vice. Now he knew that the danger he had felt was upon him. He saw the inspector at his side begin to struggle violently. Desperately he tried to bring out his revolver—he was powerless, caught as in a vice. Some hidden mechanism in those chairs had been released, arms and legs were held more firmly than human hands could have held them.

An oath broke from the inspector's lips as he realized the nature of the trap in which they were caught. But there came no answering sound from those waiting, motionless, yellow figures on every side. Their very immobility seemed only to render the position more terrible. And then at last the silence was broken by a laugh, a wicked, malicious laugh, the very sound of which made Steadman's blood run cold in his veins.

The laughter ceased as suddenly as it had begun and, as if by a concerted signal, every light in the room went out. A voice rang out, Steadman fancied from the figure on the dais.

“Arms up! inspector. Arms up! Mr. Steadman.” Then another ripple of that horrible laughter. “Ah, I forgot! Our wonderful chairs make all such commands a superfluity! And so, inspector, you are going to have your wish—you are going to meet the Yellow Dog at last! But I fear, I greatly fear that when that interview is over you will not be in a position to make your discoveries known to that wonderful Scotland Yard, of which you have been so distinguished a member.” The emphasis on the “have been” was ominous.

But there was no fear in the inspector's voice as it rapped out:

“Be careful what you do, Yellow Dog. He laughs best who laughs last. I warn you that this house is virtually in the hands of the police.”

“Is that so, my dear inspector?”

There was another laugh, but this time John Steadman fancied there was some subtle change in the quality.

“But I rather think the police do not know where this house ends, and those of others begin!”

“Shall I supply you with the names of the others? The police know more than you think, you dog!” said the inspector daringly.

“And less than they think,” said the raucous voice mockingly, “or you and your friend would hardly find yourselves here, dear inspector.”

“Damnation!” Steadman knew that the detective was struggling fiercely from those clutching, enveloping arms.

“In case, however, that there is just the thinnest substratum of truth in your statement, Furnival,” the mocking voice went on, “perhaps we had better waste no more time but get on to business.”

The silvery bell tinkled again, the light was switched on.

Steadman saw that all the golden chairs were empty, that there was apparently no one in the room with the inspector and himself but that figure on the dais. He saw that the inspector had given up struggling and that by some means he had managed to tear the yellow mask from his face, which was unwontedly scarlet from his efforts to free himself.

“Strip!” ordered that voice from the platform.

In an instant a dozen hands had seized Steadman. It seemed that there were countless, yellow-masked men in the room. He had not even been conscious of their coming, until he had felt them and those ruthless, yellow, claw-like fingers catching at him on all sides at once. The gripping arms of the chair had released him, but it was in vain that he sought to release himself—he was conscious, vaguely, that the inspector was fighting too. But neither the inspector nor Steadman was in fighting condition. Both of them were elderly men who in their young days had not been athletic, and their efforts now were hopeless. Their garments were rent from them, the contents of their pockets were passed to the man on the platform, who commented upon them sarcastically.

“Automatics! Dear, dear! And you never had a chance to use them, either! Shows how differently things pan out to our anticipations, doesn't it, inspector? And police whistles? If we were only to sound one how the scene would change! You did not neglect any precautions, did you, inspector?”

And while the jeering questions went on the grasping yellow fingers were going on too, until the prisoners stood mother naked before their tormentors, their bare limbs bound round and round with cords.

“So now we come to grips,” said the masked man, and this time Steadman thought he caught something faintly familiar, and one question that had troubled him of late was answered for ever. “I hope you'll not be much inconvenienced by this return to a state of nature,” the man on the platform went on. “I fear you may be rather cold, but it is unavoidable under the circumstances, and it will not be for long. Then I feel sure you will neither of you be cold any more. Now, now, inspector!”

For a while John Steadman stood motionless, his short-sighted eyes peering at that yellow-clad figure; the inspector was swearing big strange oaths.

“You do look so funny, you know, inspector”—and this time Steadman could almost have fancied there was a feminine echo in that vile laughter—“and your language is too dreadful. But this outrage, as you call it, had to be. Clothes are so identifiable, as I am sure you have learnt in your wide experience, my dear inspector. But now this conversation, interesting as it is, must end. And I think we must silence that unruly member of yours, inspector!”

The silver bell tinkled sharply. In an instant those soft hands had seized the two men and gags were thrust into their mouths, and tied with cruel roughness. Then bandages were bound over their eyes and rougher, harder hands held their pinioned arms on either side and pulled them sideways.

Steadman felt certain they were being taken out by the door by which they entered, and very carefully his trained legal mind was noting down every slightest indication of the direction in which they were being taken. A farewell laugh came from the platform.

“So this is really good-bye. I trust, I do trust that your poor bare feet may not be hurt by the path along which you have to travel. But in case some injury should be unavoidable let me assure you it will not be for long, that much sooner than you probably anticipate the pain will be over.”

Steadman could have fancied that there was something hysterical in that last laugh. But he had not time to think of it, to speculate as to the identity of the figure on the dais that the yellow domino and the mask concealed. He was being hurried along at a rate that did not give him time to raise his naked, shackled feet. They dragged helplessly along the stone pavement, for, once they had left that sinister yellow room, there were no carpets. Two or three times Steadman felt wood and guessed they were being taken through rooms, and several times for a few paces there would be oilcloth. Once his knee was banged against something the he felt certain was the corner of a wooden chair, once from the wood a splinter ran into his foot. It was evident that either they were being taken in and out or that many of the houses in that neighbourhood must have means of communication, and must necessarily be in the occupation of members of the Yellow Gang.

At last there was a pause, a door was unlocked and they were pushed inside a room with bare plank floor. They were propped up against the wall; something was thrown on to the boards; the bandage over Steadman's eyes was pulled roughly off. A voice with a harsh, uncouth accent, singularly unlike the soft purring voice that had spoken from the dais in the Yellow Room, said abruptly:

“The Great Yellow Dog has sent you these two rugs. They will serve to keep you warm. He regrets very much that you will be kept waiting. But unfortunately it is low tide and the river is not up yet.”

Then the door was closed, they heard the key turn; the captives were left alone in their prison. Steadman's eyes, aching from the tight bandage, were full of water; for a few minutes he could see nothing. He would have given worlds to rub his eyes, but he could not move his arms one inch upwards. However, as the mist before his eyes cleared he saw that they were both propped up against a plain whitewashed wall, in a room that was absolutely bare, except that a fur rug lay at his feet and another at the feet of the inspector farther along.

Steadman could turn his head, almost the only movement that was free, and he saw that the poor detective had fared worse at the hands of their capturers than he had himself. Furnival's face was grazed on the forehead and cheek. It was flecked with blood and slime. As Steadman watched, his fellow-sufferer sank on the rug at his feet with a muffled sound of utter exhaustion. Steadman was not inclined to give up easily and, leaning there, he tried to work the knot of the string that tied his gag, but in vain, the members of the Yellow Gang did their work thoroughly. He looked round the room. It was absolutely bare of furniture and indescribably dirty. It was lighted dimly by a small window set rather high and guarded by iron bars. As Steadman's dazed faculties returned he became aware of a lapping sound and realized that the river must be just outside. The full meaning of that last message from the Yellow Dog dawned upon him now.

As Steadman gazed round the room and then at his exhausted companion, the conviction forced itself upon him that, as far as all human probability lay, their very moments were numbered. Try as he would he could not free his hands. There appeared to be no possibility of escape except by the door or window, and he had heard the door locked and saw that it was of unusual stoutness, while the iron bars across the window spoke for themselves. In his present helpless condition what gleam of hope could there be?