Grey Mask (19 page)

Charles came back to feelings of extreme discomfort. He opened his eyes and saw light coming down from above. There was something dark on either side of him; the light came down between two dark walls. The right side of his head felt just as it had felt when he was nine years old and had run into the corner of the dining-room cupboard. He blinked at the light and tried to move. He couldn’t.

He had an instant of intense fear, and then realized with relief that the reason he couldn’t move was that his hands and feet were tied. At the same moment a horrible choking feeling was explained by the presence of a gag.

He was lying on his back with his knees drawn up. A thick wad of something filled his mouth. He stared up at the light, and his head began to clear. The dark wall on the right was the study wall; the dark wall on the left was the back of Freddy Pelham’s sofa. He was lying on the ground between the sofa and the wall with his hands tied in front of him and his ankles strapped together. There was a most abominable gag in his mouth.

These things, which belonged to the immediate moment, presented themselves with increasing definiteness. What on earth had happened? His unconsciousness hung like a black curtain between him and the events which had preceded it. He could hear Freddy Pelham moving in the room. He crossed the floor and threw back the lid of a box. Then he crossed the floor again. Now he moved a chair, and there was a rustling of papers.

Charles knew that it was Freddy who was moving to and fro in the room. He could remember coming up the iron stair from the garden and seeing Freddy pull the blind aside and open the door to let him in. What on earth had happened after that? Something about Margaret. Something about Grey Mask. Quite suddenly he had a swift, unnaturally brilliant picture of the study as it looked from the door—not the door into the garden but the other door that led out on to the staircase. He saw the room, and he saw Freddy Pelham with an automatic in his hand and cool, cold murder in his eyes. He saw Freddy’s finger move. That was the picture, everything in it very hard and bright and clear. It kept coming and going, and as it came and went, he began to remember.

He had got as far as the door; he had turned; he had seen Freddy; he had ducked, and Freddy had fired. The shot must have grazed the right side of his head and knocked him out. Freddy had trussed him up and shoved him away behind the sofa. He had done this because Margaret was coming. At this point his mind became quite clear. He heard Freddy Pelham get up and come towards him. The sofa was moved some inches. Freddy leaned over the back of it and looked down at him.

Freddy? Freddy Pelham? Charles stared at a stranger with Freddy Pelham’s features and Freddy Pelham’s clothes. This was not the Freddy whom he or anyone else had known— the foolish, amiable Freddy whom one laughed at and was fond of, and who bored one so terribly with his reminiscences. Hard merciless eyes looked coldly down at Charles; a cruel mouth relaxed into a smile; a clearer, harder voice than Freddy’s spoke:

“So you’re not dead? It’s a pity—for you.”

Charles glared. At the sight of Freddy’s smile such a hot rage boiled up in him that he felt as if he would burst.

Freddy nodded.

“You’re beginning to realize what a dam-fool you’ve made of yourself. Amusing—isn’t it? Just think of all the times you’ve laughed at me behind my back and been nice to me in a pleasant condescending way for Margaret’s sake. And just think what a howling fool you were making of yourself all the time. It’s really rather a pity that I can’t take the gag out and hear what you’ve got to say about it. Perhaps later on, in a more secluded spot—I’m afraid it won’t do here, but I really should like to hear what you’ve got to say. I’m afraid you’re not very comfortable; but that can’t be helped.”

He held the back of the sofa and began to laugh, rocking gently to and fro. “My dear Charles, you’ve no idea what a fool you look! I’m really delighted that you’re not seriously hurt. In case you’re worrying about it, do let me beg you not to be fussed about your wound. It’s really a mere nothing—a graze. You can’t think how pleased I am, because there are things that I’m really going to enjoy saying to you. I’ve always disliked you a good deal. You had the impudence to admire Esther, for one thing, and to combine it with a scarcely veiled contempt for myself. When I broke off your engagement to Margaret, I was really combining business with pleasure. I hope you realize how entirely you owe the pleasure of being publicly jilted on the eve of your wedding day to me.”

Charles had mastered the blind rage which betrayed itself. He kept his eyes on Freddy in a stare of contempt.

“Margaret told you that she saw part of a letter of mine. Naturally I couldn’t risk her marrying you and telling you what she had seen. As a matter of fact, I don’t know how much she did see—but none of it was fit for publication. I don’t think I’ve ever been so careless before or since—I shouldn’t have lasted so long if I had. I’ve had twenty years of it and you’re the very first person who has ever guessed that I was Grey Mask.”

The name fell like a spark into the vague gaseous imaginings that had been coming and going in Charles’ mind. There was a flare which illumined all the dark places. By its light Charles read his death warrant. The only person who had ever guessed the identity of Grey Mask would not be given the chance of passing the secret on. Something of this knowledge must have shown in his eyes, for Freddy laughed.

“You’ve got it, have you? Think it over for a bit.”

He disappeared, crossed to the window, and almost immediately returned.

“Margaret is coming up the garden. Now please realize this—if you make the slightest sound, if you attract her attention in any way, I shall shoot—not you, but her. Don’t imagine for a moment that this is bluff. If it comes in the way of business, I don’t care who I remove. But as a matter of fact, I dislike Margaret almost as much as I dislike you, and if you provide me with the excuse, I shall be charmed. Make as much noise as you please. You can kick the leg of the sofa, I expect, if you try.” He leant over and flicked Charles on the cheek.

The next instant there came a tapping on the window. The sofa was pushed back into its place, and Freddy Pelham’s footsteps receded.

Charles lay quite still. Freddy meant what he said. He had not the slightest doubt of that—not the very slightest. He lay perfectly still, and heard the French window open; Margaret’s voice; Freddy’s voice—the old half-hesitating voice;

“Now this is very nice of you, my dear—very nice indeed. I meant to come round, but time’s getting short, getting terribly short—first thing to-morrow morning, you know, and I don’t feel as if I should ever be packed in time—I’m not good at it, you know, not at all good at it—never was, never will be—what?”

“Can I help?”

The sound of Margaret’s voice, tired, soft, kind, hurt Charles so much that he could hardly bear it. He could only see those two dark walls and the light coming down between them; but he knew in his heart how Margaret looked when she said that—she was pale, she had dark shadows under her eyes; she looked beautifully and kindly at the little mocking devil who would be charmed to have an excuse for removing her.

Margaret spoke again:

“Freddy, you look bothered, and I’m afraid I’ve come to bother you more. But I must.”

“Anything I can do, my dear.”

“Freddy, I’m in dreadful trouble about Greta.”

“About Greta? There, my dear, don’t distress yourself. What’s she been doing?”

“Freddy—she’s disappeared!”

“Oh, come! Disappeared? You mean she’s gone out with some young fellow and not come back yet. Give her time—what?”

“No, no, it’s not that. She disappeared in broad daylight from Harridge’s. The commissionaire saw her get into a strange car and go off. Archie’s wild with anxiety.”

Freddy laughed, the old rather foolish laugh which was so familiar.

“Master Archie’s in love. He’s jealous because Miss Greta has gone off for the day with someone else.”

“Freddy, it isn’t that. Look here, Freddy, you may have guessed—I don’t know whether you have or not. Greta is Margot Standing.”

Freddy’s exclamation of astonishment sounded so natural that Charles started.

“No! Not really!”

“Freddy”—Margaret’s voice sank low and troubled— “Freddy! Margot Standing—Grey Mask—did you know there was anything?”

Freddy said, “Hush!” on a shocked breath.

“Did you? Freddy, did you now that they wanted her removed? Freddy, I’m so dreadfully frightened.”

Margaret had sunk across the corner of the table now and caught at Freddy’s hand.

“You told me it was political. I believed you until the other day.”

“My dear.”

“Freddy—I believed you.” She looked up at him through a mist of tears. “Freddy, Charles was in his house the day you were ill and sent me to the meeting there. He—heard things. He heard things about Margot. He heard them say she must be removed if her mother’s marriage certificate were found—they talked about a street accident. He heard them. If he hadn’t seen me he would have called in the police then and there. I wish—I wish he had, for I’m desperately afraid about Margot.”

“Now my dear.” Freddy was patting her hand. She pulled it away with a jerk.

“I think they’ve got hold of her. You’ll help—won’t you?” Charles could hear how her voice shook. “Freddy, she’s only a child really—just a pretty baby. You liked her. You can help if you will, because you know where to find him.” The last word came with a gasp.

Freddy Pelham had turned away. He put his hands over his eyes and did not speak.

“Freddy, you did like her. You’ll help.”

“What can I do?”

“You can go to them.”

“No, no.”

“You must go to them, or else”—her voice fell and steadied—“I must go to the police.”

Charles heard a sudden sharp exclamation—protest, terror; then Margaret, very steady:

“If there’s no other way, I must.”

Freddy spoke, terror rushing into panic.

“Don’t be a fool! Charles likes her—do you want him to like her? Aren’t you—fond of him yourself? Let her go. What does it matter to you? Do you want him to fall in love with her? Are you going to ruin yourself and me—and me, to give Charles an heiress? Is that what you’re going to do?”

“Don’t!”

“If it’s ruin for me, you’re in it too. Don’t forget that!”

Charles knew the mockery of that shaking craven voice.

“Yes—I know. But I can’t let that child be hurt.” A strange passion came into her voice. “I ought to have done it before—I sec that now. But I didn’t know the risk she was running—I didn’t—not till the other night. Freddy, that bus—it wasn’t an accident. She was pushed. Freddy, who pushed her?”

With every word she spoke Charles Moray’s agony of apprehension was heightened. He was helpless, voiceless, dead already; and he had to see Margaret draw nearer step by step to the pit into which he himself had fallen. That she was lost from the moment she mentioned the police, he was persuaded; and to listen whilst Freddy played with her, used her to torture him, was the last indignity of pain.

“Who pushed her?”

He heard Margaret say that, and then silence fell—a long, cold silence. He did not see Freddy Pelham’s hand drop down upon his knee. He did not see the mockery that looked out of Freddy Pelham’s eyes.

Margaret saw these things. Only a yard away from her there sat someone whom she had never known, someone whose eyes gave her an unbelievable answer to the question she had asked. The silence went on. Margaret’s very heart was cold with it. She began slowly to believe that unbelievable answer; she began to believe the other things which the silence and those horrible eyes were telling her. She would have been very glad to faint, but her mind was clear and steady; it was her heart that was numb with pain.

After a very long time Charles heard her say “Oh!” The sound broke something, for immediately Freddy Pelham laughed.

“So you’ve answered your very naïve question for yourself. As your friend Archie would say, you’ve got it in one. I was aware that Miss Greta Wilson was Margot Standing. And when she so obligingly prattled at my dinner table about a certificate she found, I thought myself justified in taking a slight personal risk when an exceptionally favourable opportunity presented itself. I reached behind you and at the critical moment I pushed her. If you hadn’t interfered, she would have been very neatly disposed of.”

Margaret sprang to her feet.

“You’re mad! You don’t know what you’re saying!”

“People are always mad when they run counter to the established order. I’ve been very successfully mad for twenty years. I have had very few failures, and not one disaster. I am, in fact, a successful madman.” His tone was coldly amused.

“Who are you?” said Margaret. Even her voice shrank.

Charles could guess at the horror in her eyes. He could guess at Freddy’s smile.

“Don’t you know?”

“No.” It was just a breath.

Freddy Pelham put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small automatic pistol.

“I’m afraid you will have to pay the penalty for knowing that I am Grey Mask,” he said.

The room was silent. Charles could hear nothing, see nothing. He strained, and heard only the horrid beat of his own pulses.

Margaret’s hands had fallen on the back of the chair by which she stood. It was a heavy mahogany chair with an old-fashioned horse-hair seat. Her hands closed on the smooth mahogany in the hard grip that felt nothing. The pillars of her house had fallen. She stood in the disaster and held blindly to the nearest thing that offered support. The shock was too great for crying out; it struck her dumb. She saw the pistol and the cruelty in Freddy’s eyes. She hoped he would shoot quickly. It was too horrible. She hoped he would shoot quickly.

He did not shoot. He balanced the pistol in his hand and laughed.

“I’m glad you didn’t scream. Marvellous self-control! If you had screamed, I should have had to shoot you at once—and that would have been a pity. I should like”—his voice slipped back into the hesitating voice that she had always known—“I should really like now to have a little talk with you first, my dear—a comfortable talk—what?”

Margaret drew a long, deep, shuddering breath, and he laughed again.

“Not any louder than that please.” It was Grey Mask speaking. “I don’t want to have to put an end to our little party just as we’re all really beginning to enjoy ourselves— but I’m forgetting you’re not aware that it is a party. They say three isn’t company; but it does so depend on the three. Doesn’t it? Now you and I and Charles—”

Margaret said “Oh!” It was a quick involuntary cry.

Freddy Pelham took her by the shoulder. She had not known that there could be so much strength in his fingers.

“You haven’t said how d’you do to Charles,” he said. “Come along and have a look at him. He’s been having a most entertaining time, and so have I. It’s time you had a share in the fun. Let go of that chair!” This last was a sharp command with a sort of snarling fury behind it that was quite sudden and very daunting.

Then in an instant, as Margaret’s rigid fingers still held on to the mahogany rail, he struck her across the knuckles with the little pistol. The blow cut the skin.

Charles heard her gasp and catch her breath. The next moment the sofa was pulled aside. Freddy was grinning at him, and Margaret looking, looking with her bruised hands at her breast and sheer heartbreak in her eyes. She said “Charles” and again “Charles” very faintly; and then “Is he—” and long, long pause before her failing voice said, “dead?”

“Not yet,” said Freddy.

Margaret cried out and wrenched away from him.

“Steady now—steady! If you make a noise, I shall have to shoot him here—and now. You can look, but you mustn’t touch. He’s a lovely sight—isn’t he? You needn’t be alarmed by the blood on the side of his head—it’s a mere scratch and won’t interfere in the least with his enjoyment of the next few days. I’m not going to hurt either of you, you know, unless you positively oblige me to—I’m only going to leave you in a comfortable dry cellar where you may, or may not, be found when the ninety-nine year lease of this house has fallen in, in—let me see, it is seventy or seventy-one years’ time from now—I’m really not quite sure.”

Margaret turned on him with a courage which stirred Charles Moray’s pride.

“Freddy, you’re not well. You—what are you saying? Freddy—think!”

Freddy Pelham let his amused gaze touch first one and then the other of them.

“My dear Margaret, it will save trouble if you will realize that you are not dealing with an amiable step-father who has suddenly gone mad, but with a man of intelligence who has built up a most successful business and is prepared to remove anyone who endangers it. Though I dislike you both acutely, I should never have lifted a finger against either of you if you had not foolishly threatened me with the police. I never mix business and pleasure. It will save time if you realize this. As an illustration, I may tell you that the cellar of which I spoke just now was the reason for my buying this house, and for my continuing to stay here all these years. It has often been—exceedingly useful. It was constructed by the eccentric Sir Joseph Tunney in 1795. I came across a reference in an old book of memoirs which caused me to buy this house when it came into the market. When I say that not even your mother has ever suspected the existence of this extra cellar, you will admit that Sir Joseph Tunney was a highly ingenious person. Why, Mark Dupre was there for a fortnight, with the police scouring the country for him, and not a soul ever suspected where he had been. He was wise enough to pay up, and when we had collected the money, he was found—as perhaps you remember—on the top of Hindhead in his pyjamas without the slightest idea of how he got there.”

Margaret had been falling slowly back step by step with her hands out before her as if to keep something away. As Freddy finished speaking, she sank down in the chair by the writing-table, flung her arms across the scattered papers, and bowed her head upon them.

“Well now, we’ll go down and look at the cellar—what?”

The reappearance of the old Freddy was the last touch of horror. Margaret cried out and lifted her head.

“Freddy—there’s one thing—Freddy—mother—will you tell me the truth? What happened? Is she—dead?”

He stiffened.

“That’s a very extraordinary thing to say. What makes you ask a thing like that?”

“An old friend—I met an old friend of hers. She said— she said—she’d seen her a fortnight ago in Vienna. I thought—” Her voice died as he looked at her.

“Who is this—friend?”

“I shant tell you. She only saw her for an instant. She didn’t speak to her. Freddy, tell me!” Her fingers clasped and unclasped themselves, tearing a piece of paper to shreds. “Freddy, tell me!”

“Who is this friend?”

She shook her head.

“You don’t know her. She doesn’t know anything. She thinks it was a likeness. Please, please tell me.”

“What does it matter to you now? On the other hand, it doesn’t really matter to me; so, as it happens, I don’t mind telling you. Esther is alive—or was three days ago when her last letter to me was posted.”

“Alive!” The word came with a rash.

“I’ve already told you that it makes no difference to you. It’s very irrational of you to feel any pleasure in a matter which won’t concern you in the least.”

Margaret said “Alive!” again. This time the word was only, a whisper.

Freddy Pelham began to walk up and down the room.

“Yes, she’s alive. If even the strongest of us hadn’t got his weakness, she wouldn’t be alive. She’s been my danger always—always.” He repeated the word with a certain fierce energy. “A man in my line of business should never allow himself a serious affair with a woman—it’s dangerous. You needn’t think of me as a fool who gave way to weakness. No, I always knew that she was my danger point, and I ran the risk deliberately, because she was the only woman I have ever met who was worth it, and because I felt myself strong enough to surmount the danger.”

Margaret’s eyes rested on him with a horrified surprise. Was this Freddy?

He went on talking all the time in a low, hard tone:

“I risked it, and I risked it successfully until six months ago. Then she discovered something. If she had been an ordinary woman, I could have put her off—you know how quick she is. Besides I was not altogether sorry. One gets a little tired of acting the poor fool whose only merit is his capacity for humble adoration. I welcomed the chance of showing myself to Esther as I really was.” He paused, stood in the middle of the room looking down at the pistol in his hand. “I ought to have ended it at once when I found how unreasonable she was. Instead, I went back to my acting—I played the penitent—and ye gods, how women do revel in forgiveness! She produced a plan she considered a stroke of genius—we would go abroad, making her health the excuse. I was to renounce my profession and any profits derived from it. A deliciously feminine piece of impracticability. Well, we went abroad. I allowed Esther to think that she was choosing our route. As a matter of fact, I had a plan of my own. I have for some years possessed a charming estate in eastern Europe. I took Esther there by car. She had no idea of where she was when we got there. Fortune played into my hands; she fell ill after a scene in which I explained my plan to her. Then, I must confess, I displayed weakness. I did not accept what chance offered me. I found myself unable to do so—I found that I could not contemplate life without her. It was a weakness. I temporised. I sent telegrams announcing her death. At one moment I hoped that she would die; at the next I drove three hundred miles to fetch a doctor. In the end she lived. I left her in trustworthy hands and came back. If I found that I could live without her, she could still be removed. If I was unable to conquer this foolish weakness of mine, she could remain in seclusion, and I could so arrange my affairs as to be able to go backwards and forwards. This morning”—He stopped, looked down at the pistol with a cold, furious stare, and then went on quickly: “This morning I heard from her— from Vienna. She had made her way there—how, I shall make it my business to find out. She could not have got away except by treachery—it was impossible. She writes that she is well—that there are things she does not understand— that she is waiting in Vienna for a personal explanation. I propose to give her one that will remove all further danger from my path.”

Margaret turned her eyes from his face. Another moment, and she would have screamed aloud. She caught at the arm of her chair and stood up. She was trembling very much. As Freddy came towards her, she went back step by step, her hands behind her, until she reached the window. She touched the edge of the blind.

Freddy levelled his pistol.

“If you lift that blind or call out, I’ll shoot.”

She shook her head, leaning there with half-closed eyes as if she were about to faint.

“Come away from that window at once! Do you hear! One”—he wheeled suddenly and aimed at Charles— “two—”

Margaret ran forward sobbing and catching her breath.

“No—no—no!”

He caught her roughly by the arm.

“We’ve had enough of this. Come along! Walk in front of me to the door and open it! Remember if you make one sound, it’ll be your last.”

He turned and took an electric torch from a shelf.

Charles saw the door opened. As Margaret passed through it, he thought, with a frightful stab of pain, that he had seen her face for the last time. She looked over her shoulder just before the door swung in and hid her from his sight. He strained with all his might against his bonds, only to realize that he was exhausting himself uselessly. He lay still, and suffered for Margaret. The sudden break in her self-control, the pitiful sobbing—if only she had not broken down—if only her fine pride had held to the last. Charles Moray remembered that he had wished to see it broken.

He remembered all the times she had looked pale, and he had been angry, and all the times she had been sad and he had been cruel. And he remembered that he might have comforted her, and he had not. And now it was too late. He could not tell her now that he had loved her all the time—he could never tell her now. He had meant to tell her. He had meant to kiss the sorrow from her eyes and the sadness from her lips. He had meant to hold her close and hear her say, “Forgive—forgive the years I stole.” …It was too late.

Half way down the stairs Margaret sank down. The hand on her shoulder closed in a bruising grip and jerked her to her feet. They passed out of the hall and through the door leading to the basement. Margaret’s steps faltered; she had to lean against the wall. The hand on her shoulder forced her on and down.

In the basement, the empty kitchen and other offices; and at the back, a small flight of steps that led to the cellars, three in number—one for coal, one full of packing-cases, and the third a locked wine-cellar.

Freddy Pelham unlocked the door. There was a good deal of wine in the bins, and at the far end, a cask or two and some more packing-cases. He shut and locked the door on the inside, and then proceeded to shift one of the casks and to move the packing-cases.

A low, stout wooden door barred with iron came into view behind them. It was barely three feet high, and was secured by three strong bolts.

Freddy shot them back.

“When I bought this house, all this was very cleverly hidden—match-boarding and whitewash—very clever indeed. Without the information which I had extracted from an otherwise extraordinarily dry book of memoirs I should never have found it, and you wouldn’t be here. Let us praise the pious memory of Sir Joseph Tunney.”

He pushed the door, which opened inwards. A horrible darkness showed beyond. He stood back with the mockery of a bow.

“It’s perfectly dry, and on the warm side. Your last hours should be quite comfortable.”

Margaret leaned against the packing-cases.

“And if I won’t?”

“I shoot you here and push you into that most convenient vault. In with you!”

“Freddy—” The word died on her lips. There was nothing to appeal to. There wasn’t any Freddy. There was only Grey Mask.

She had to bend almost double to pass that horrible low door. Freddy’s torch threw a dancing ray beyond her into the darkness. Her head swam as she watched it flicker. The rough floor seemed to tilt and tremble. Her foot slipped and she fell forward. Behind her the door slammed and she heard the bolts go home. The flickering ray was gone. It was dark.