Grey Mask (20 page)

Margaret lay where she had fallen. The strength had gone out of her. She lay quite still and strained for any sound beyond the bolted door. There wasn’t any sound. She could not hear Freddy’s retreating footsteps or the opening and closing of the wine-cellar door. She could not hear anything at all. The place was soundless, lightless, utterly cut off. The warm, heavy air weighed on her with a deadening pressure. She kept her eyes shut so that she could not see how dark it was. Minutes passed.

It was a very little thing that roused her. Her left hand lay on a sharp point in the uneven floor, and a good part of her weight rested on this hand. The pressure became unbearable. She moved, shuddered, and sat up.

Instantly she wished that she had not moved, that she had let the sharp point prick her to the bone. The darkness of the place was dreadful. In every direction there was a gloom so dense that it seemed to forbid movement and breath as well as sight. Only thought remained. Charles—Was she to die alone in the dark? What had happened to Charles? Would she ever know? What was happening? The door and the darkness were between her and the answer to all the terrified throng of thoughts that clamoured to know.

She covered her face with her hands and bent her head upon her knees. She mustn’t let herself lose grip. Grey Mask couldn’t touch them really. Nothing could touch you as long as you held on—not darkness, nor silence, nor anything that anyone could do. She stopped minding the dark.

It seemed to be a very long time before a sound reached her. It came suddenly, harshly, as the bolts ran back and the door swung in.

She sat up, her heart beating violently, and saw the beam from Freddy’s torch cutting across the corner of the nearest packing-case. The wood was rough and splintered. The beam gave each splinter its own black shadow, then, shifting, touched Charles Moray’s foot. His ankles had been untied. He seemed to be leaning against the case. Behind him, Freddy spoke:

“Pride goes before a fall. Get down and get in! I haven’t any more time to spare for either of you. Get inside!”

Margaret was filled with a curious trembling joy. Charles was here. Whatever happened, they were going to be together. She drew back and saw him come through the low doorway bent double. Suddenly he pitched forward as Freddy thrust at him from behind.

Margaret gave a sharp cry of pain, and had the light flashed full upon her face.

“Well, well,” said Freddy Pelham, “you can now make the most of your time together. You can break your fingernails trying to undo my knots, and when you’ve got them undone, you’ll be just as far from getting out of this as you were before. It may save you a good deal of trouble if I tell you that this place is absolutely sound-proof. You won’t even hear me lock the wine-cellar door as I go out, and from the other side of that door I shouldn’t hear a sound if you were shouting through a megaphone. There are eight feet of earth between you and the garden, and six men couldn’t break down the door. I don’t know what old Joe Tunney used this cellar for; but I know what we’ve used it for, and it has stood the test every time. The ventilation is quite adequate and rather ingenious.”

He shifted the torch and allowed it to light up his wrist watch for an instant.

“I must be going. I have still a few things to do, and I have to be up early. Perhaps it may solace you tomorrow to think of my flying to Vienna. With any luck we shall get above the fog. You can think of me bathed in sunshine. There was an old-fashioned song which I remember an aunt of mine used to sing very charmingly;

“For I am content to abide in the shadow

So long as the sunshine falls brightly on thee.”

In Vienna—I have an account to square.” His voice had changed; the words came slowly; there were strange undertones of reluctance, effort, fear. Grey Mask’s one weakness was a weakness still. It was not the least of Esther Brandon’s many triumphs.

With a quick jerk Freddy Pelham slammed the door on them. The bolts were shot with violence.

Margaret listened as she had done before, and heard no further sound. She put out her hand and groped for Charles. And then a dreadful thought struck her rigid. Suppose Freddy hadn’t really gone? Suppose he were just waiting there on the other side of the door to see what they would do—listening, waiting, ready to break in on them and snatch away their little lingering hope.

She crept to the door, laid her ear against the crack, and listened with such intensity that it seemed to her as if she must hear every sound in the world.

She could hear nothing.

Then in the dark beside her Charles Moray moved, struggling into a sitting position. Instantly she forgot Freddy. Still on her knees, she turned; her arm flung out, struck against his shoulder and came about him in a movement astonishingly full of protecting strength. She began to whisper to him:

“Charles—are you all right? I’ll get this dreadful thing out of your mouth—if I were only sure he’d gone—do you think it’s safe? Wait—wait—just a minute—whilst I listen again. Are you all right? Move your head if you are.”

She felt it move, and turned back to the door. Not a sound—not one smallest sound. After all, why should he wait? He wouldn’t wait—he would want to get away.

She turned round again.

“I think it’s all right. He’d want to get away. I want you to lean against me—yes, like that—so that I can feel just where you are. I came straight from the shop, so I’ve got my scissors. I’ve been thinking of them all the time. I can cut that horrible bandage, only you must keep awfully still.”

The fingers of her right hand went to her coat, unbuttoning it. The scissors hung at her side, a good strong pair, really made for use. She cut through the ribbon that held them, and then, shielding the point with a very careful finger, guided them to where the bandage crossed his left ear. The gag had been tied on with a silk handkerchief. Once the point was under the tight fold, it was easily cut.

Charles had never experienced a more blessed relief. He coughed, spluttered, and spat out the gag—another handkerchief by the feel of it. Margaret was fingering the rope at his wrists. This was silk too—one of those heavy cords that are used to loop back the old-fashioned type of curtain. The knots might have defied her, but the strands were soon cut through.

“That’s great!”

He stretched his arms, then felt his head gingerly.

“Are you all right? Charles—”

“Right as rain.”

“Ssh! Perhaps he’s still there. He mustn’t hear you speak. Do you think he’s gone?”

“My dear, what does it matter?”

“He—why did you say that?”

Charles put his arm round her.

“We’d better face it, old girl. We’re through. If he came back and shot us, it would be quicker.”

She did not speak for a minute. She did not speak, because for a long minute she was too happy to speak. She leaned against Charles in the darkness and felt his arm about her, very strong, very steady. Nothing seemed to matter.

The arm about her tightened.

“Margaret!”

She turned her face to him.

“Margaret—we’re together!”

“Yes—” The word was a sighing breath.

“I’ve been an utter beast to you. I—I loved you all the time.”

He felt her draw away.

“I thought—you loved Greta.”

“Good Lord! I’m not a nursemaid! The creature’s about five years old! You didn’t really think so?”

“I did.”

“My darling idiot!”

He kissed her.

“Do you think so now—now—now? Why are you crying—Meg?”

Margaret hid her face against him.

“Because I’m so—happy.”

There was a blessed silence. The cellar, the darkness, the desperate, hopeless state in which they stood, were just the outer shadow which could not touch them. Margaret, at least, was in some joyful place of heart’s desire, the haven which she had longed for and never hoped to see.

To Charles the shadow was a visible menace. He spoke first:

“They’ll look for us—they’re bound to look for us.”

But even at the sound of his own words his heart sank. They might look; but how would they ever find them here?

“If we’d a light. Do you know how big this place is?”

“No. I don’t think there’s any way out, or he wouldn’t have left us. But, Charles, they will look for us.”

“Did anyone know you were coming here?”

“One of the girls at the shop did. I told her I was going to say good-bye to my stepfather. And—and Archie knew—” She stopped, trying to remember exactly what she had said to Archie.

“What?”

“I’m trying to think. I said—yes, I’m sure I only said—I didn’t mention Freddy’s name—I told Archie to go to the police. And he didn’t want to. Did he know about me?”

“I told him last night. It seems about a hundred years ago. What did you say to him?”

“I said there was someone who might know where Greta was. Oh, Charles, I wonder where she is?”

“Is that all you said?”

“I think so. But if he was to ask at the shop, they might think—”

“This place is so damnably well hidden.”

“Charles, I want to tell you—does it make it worse for you to hope? I do think there’s some hope.”

“Where?”

To Charles there seemed to be no hope at all.

“Because—I’ll tell you—you know when I was sitting at the table up there in the study—I was desperate—I felt I must do something after he said that about the cellars. I don’t know if you could see me. I had my arms on the table, and I put my head down and pretended I was crying. I wasn’t crying. I’d seen a pencil, and I got it in my fingers and wrote on a bit of paper. I wrote ‘Cellars—C and M.’ I kept the paper in the palm of my hand. I’d thought what I would do—it was just a chance, but it was the only thing I could think of. All the time he was talking and walking up and down, I was trying to think. And I tore up some little bits of paper quite small and kept them in my other hand. When I went back to the window as if I was frightened— oh, I was frightened—I didn’t have to pretend—I was horribly frightened—because I thought he’d shoot you if he found out—I—”

“What did you do?” Charles said quickly.

“I stuck the paper on the glass—on the windowpane. I’d sucked my finger and made it wet, and stuck the paper on the glass—the bit I’d written on. I wasn’t sure if it would stick but it did. It’s only a chance, but if he doesn’t find it, they will.”

Charles held her tight.

“It’s behind the blind?”

“Yes.”

“He won’t pull up the blind. Why should he? I don’t believe he’ll find it. Archie’s bound to come here. Margaret— darling—darling—darling—I believe you’ve saved us!”

“I couldn’t think of anything else except—except—I dropped a little bit of paper on the stairs, and here and there on the way down to the basement, and one at the wine-cellar door, and two or three where the packing-cases are hiding this little door. I had to chance his seeing them. But he only had a torch. I thought I was bound to risk it. Do you think—do you really think they’ll find us?”

A cold revulsion sobered Charles. The hope which had carried him away offered so much. It gave him happiness, love—and Margaret. He was afraid to look at what it offered him.

“I—don’t—know,” he said.

Long hours of the night—very long—very dark.

Charles explored the cellar and found it about twelve feet square. There was no sign of any other opening. He lifted Margaret as high as he could hold her. She could just touch the roof.

Later he broke her scissors in a vain attempt to dig through the wall into the wine-cellar; the points slid and broke on very hard cement. The door itself would have withstood a battering ram. There was nothing for it but to wait.

They talked. There was so much to talk about. And then, quite suddenly, Margaret fell asleep with his arm about her and her head against his shoulder. The air was heavy and rather warm; it had the curious smell of underground places where no light ever comes. Presently Charles slept too.

He awoke with a consuming thirst; and as he moved, Margaret stirred and woke too. Her little cry of surprise cut him to the heart. She had forgotten. Now she must remember and face a black day of dwindling hope. In those night hours Charles had come to think their chance of being discovered a very slender one indeed.

Margaret said, “I’d forgotten—I was dreaming.” A little shuddering laughter shook her. “It felt so real—a great deal more real than this. I suppose—Charles, I suppose this isn’t the dream?”

If it were. If they could wake up and be together in the light. Charles put his face against hers.

“What did you dream, Meg?”

“I don’t know—it’s gone. It was something—happy. You were there. We were frightfully happy.”

If they could wake up. He held her hard for a minute. Then his clasp relaxed, and he said with sudden violence.

“That little devil must be starting.”

“Is it morning?”

“Yes—seven o’clock—quite light outside.”

A most terrible longing for the light swept over Margaret. She had a picture of the grey morning, and an aeroplane rising higher and higher until the sunlight struck the wings and made them shine. She cried out:

“I can’t bear it! Charles, if they don’t come today—if they don’t come soon, he’ll get there—he’ll get to Vienna! And she doesn’t know—she’ll be waiting for him, and she doesn’t know!”

“We’re all in the same boat, my dear.”

“I can’t bear it!” There were tears in her voice. “It’s so awful not to be able to do anything. When I think that she’s alive, I want to sing for joy; and when I think of him— getting nearer and nearer, and no one to warn her, I—I—Charles!”

She clung to him in a passion of bitter weeping.

“She’s got more chance than we have, darling.” The blunt fact came out bluntly. “In a sort of a way he cares for her, and—they may find us, you know.”

Margaret’s passion sank strangely into calm.

“You don’t think they will.”

Charles Moray was silent.

Miss Silver! Thank Heaven!”

Miss Maud Silver looked mildly at an agitated young man. She took a latch-key from a neat capacious bag and opened her office door.

“Come in, Mr. Millar.”

Archie came in, flung his hat on a chair, and rumpled his hair violently.

“I’ve been walkin’ up and down waitin’ for you till I thought I should go mad.”

“Dear me, Mr. Millar—and why?”

“Where’s Charles Moray?”

Miss Silver paused in the act of taking off a long drab rain-coat.

“I really have no idea.”

“Where’s Margaret Langton?”

“Mr. Millar—what do you mean?”

“I mean they’ve disappeared—that’s what I mean. I’ve been trying to get on to Charles since two o’clock yesterday. He’s never been back to his hotel. I went to Miss Langton’s flat last night, and she wasn’t there. And she hasn’t been to work. What’s happened?”

A faint, fleeting smile just touched Miss Silver’s face.

“They might have gone away together.”

“Don’t you believe it! Somethin’ has happened. Now look here! Charles went down to his house yesterday afternoon and stayed there till it was dusk sortin’ papers—I’ve seen the housekeeper. He let himself out by the garden way, and nobody’s seen him since.”

“And Miss Langton?”

“I’d just been seein’ her when I rang you up yesterday. I was all worked up about Miss Standing. Miss Langton told me to go to the police. I didn’t want to do that.” Archie hesitated; he wasn’t sure how much Miss Silver knew. ??There were reasons for not bringing the police into it.”

Miss Silver gave her little cough.

“I am aware of that. It was, if I may say so, exceedingly courageous of Miss Langton to suggest your going to the police. But”—she coughed again—“have you considered the probability that she has disappeared as a consequence of that suggestion?”

Archie nodded.

“I thought about it.”

“Mr. Moray may have taken her away.”

“I don’t think so, because, you see, I said I wouldn’t go to the police.”

“You said you wouldn’t go to the police?”

“Not till we’d tried everythin’ else. And Margaret said there was someone who might know where Greta—where Miss Standing was. She said she’d go and see this person as soon as ever she got off, and she promised to ring me up at my cousin’s. Well, she never rang me up at my cousin’s. And she never went back to her flat. And it seems to me she might have seen this fellow, whoever he was, and he might have cut up rough.”

“On the other hand, he might have known that Miss Standing was safe. And Miss Langton may, as I suggested before, have thought it wiser to disappear—there have been several arrests.”

“She’d have rung me up,” said Archie doggedly. “She said she’d ring me up, and she’d have done it. Don’t you believe she’s disappeared of her own free will—she hasn’t. I’m very worried about her, and I’m goin’ on worryin’ other people till I find her.”

Miss Silver took the brown exercise-book, turned to a blank page, and wrote. In a moment she looked up.

“Yes?”

“I went down to Sauterelle’s this mornin’—that’s Miss Langton’s hat-shop. I asked to speak to the other girls—bit of a V.C. job that—and one of them says Margaret told her she was goin’ off to say good-bye to her stepfather. Look here, Miss Silver—it’s damned ridiculous, but I can’t get it out of my head—Margaret’s stepfather is Freddy Pelham. He lives in a house in George Street. The gardens run down to the gardens of Thornhill Square, with just an alley-way between them. Margaret went to say good-bye to Freddy Pelham at six o’clock. Charles came out of his house in Thornhill Square at somewhere about five. He came out by the garden way. That’s to say he was within fifty yards or so of Freddy Pelham’s back gate. Supposin’ he went up to say good-bye to Freddy Pelham too? Margaret went, and she hasn’t come back. Charles hasn’t come back either. It’s damned ridiculous, but I can’t get it out of my head that old Charles may have gone there too.”

“There are other explanations,” said Miss Silver. Then she coughed and asked abruptly,

“Where is Mr. Pelham?”

“Gone abroad. I told you Margaret was sayin’ good-bye to him. Left this mornin’ by aeroplane. Address poste restante, Paris—and a flat lot of good that is!”

Miss Silver tapped with her pencil.

“Are you suggesting that we should apply for a search warrant?”

“No, I’m not. I’m suggestin’ doin’ a little job of breakin’ and enterin’. Look here, Miss Silver, are you game? I’m suggestin’ you and me goin’ boldly in by the garden door and openin’ a window with a skeleton key, or chisel, or what not. Unless Freddy’s done somethin’ drastic since I used to play in and out of the garden with Charles and Margaret, there’ll be some odd window I can get through. The question is, are you game?”

“I’ve my reputation to consider,” said Miss Silver. She coughed. “If I were walking along George Street and were to ring Mr. Pelham’s bell—” She paused and gazed at him mildly. “If you opened the door to me, it really wouldn’t be any business of mine how you got in.”

“Righto! I do the breakin’, and you do the enterin’. Come along!”

Three quarters of an hour later Mr. Millar crawled through a scullery window. It was a tight fit, and there was broken glass about; his clothes sustained some damage. He dusted himself, wondered why a scullery always smelt of cabbage, and proceeded upstairs, where he reconnoitered George Street through a hole in the drawing-room shutters. Miss Silver, in her drab rain-coat and old-fashioned turban toque, was walking slowly along the opposite pavement. She held a newspaper in her hand.

Archie proceeded to the front door and oscillated the brass flap of the letter-box.

Miss Silver crossed the road and rang the bell.

The door was secured by bolts at top and bottom. They creaked a good deal. Archie opened the door with a flourish, and Miss Silver came in. As soon as the door was shut, she turned to Archie as if she were about to speak; then suddenly changed her mind. Instead she folded the newspaper and put it into her bag.

They went together into the drawing-room. The closed shutters made a gloom there. Miss Silver took a torch from the pocket of her rain-coat.

After ten minutes they went to the dining-room, and then up the stairs. About half way to the study Miss Silver stooped and picked up a little piece of torn paper. It was just such a piece as might be torn from the corner of a letter. She flashed the light to and fro, but found nothing more.

The study was not so dark as the drawing-room; there were no shutters here, and the maroon curtains had not been drawn. A light blind reaching to within an inch of the floor screened the long French window.

Archie went over to the window and released the blind. As it left his hand, Miss Silver called to him:

“Mr. Millar—come here.”

He came quickly. He had not thought the placid voice could be shaken. Most undeniably it shook now. “Mr. Millar—look!”

She pointed, and Archie looked. At about the level of his shoulder the woodwork at the side of the door was cracked.

The edge of the jamb showed a small semi-circular furrow, the wall behind, a neat round hole.

Archie gave a faint whistle of dismay.

“A bullet hole, by gum!”

“I think so. I think the bullet’s in the wall. I trust he missed whatever he was aiming at.”

She walked over to the table, stooping on her way to pick up another torn scrap of paper. This one lay near the chair which was drawn close up to the side of the table. She stood for a moment, small grey eyes intent, hands clasped on the old-fashioned reticule she always carried. Then she leaned over the table.

Half a dozen little bits of paper lay amongst Freddy Pelham’s letters, just as they had slipped from Margaret’s hand.

Miss Silver nodded, straightened up, and looked about her. The table stood a couple of yards from the window. She looked across it and saw the garden sloping to the alley-way. The trees had a mournful, drooping look, half their leaves gone, and those that were left to them poor, torn, draggled survivals. She saw the ugly spirals of the iron balustrade guarding the garden stairs. She saw the long window between heavy, maroon curtains, one looped back, the other hanging straight. And she saw a piece of white paper lying at the foot of the straight curtain.

She went over, picked it up, and held it out to Archie.

“Well, Mr. Millar, you were right. They’re here.”

Margaret had stuck her piece of paper on the glass, but as it dried, it had fallen.

Archie read the scrawled pencil message:

“Cellars—C. and M.”

He read it, turned to stare at the hole Freddy Pelham’s bullet had made, and once more whistled softly.

“What’s it mean?”

“We shall doubtless find out. Perhaps you know the way to the cellars. I think we had better go there at once.”

She was through the door before she finished speaking. Archie followed.

At the door leading to the basement Miss Silver found another piece of paper. She coughed approvingly.

“It’s a pleasure to work with anyone so intelligent.”

“I say, that’s awfully nice of you!”

“I was not referring to you, Mr. Millar. Miss Langton must be a highly intelligent person, even for a woman.”

They went down into the basement, and farther down to where three cellar doors opened upon a dark flagged passage.

“Those two always were open,” said Archie. “Freddy liked messin’ about and doin’ a bit of carpentering in this one, and the other’s for coal. The third’s the wine-cellar.” He tried the door. “It’s locked tight.”

He rattled the latch and shouted:

“Hello—ello—ello! Charles! Are you in there? Is anyone in there?”

A booming echo came rolling back along the low roof. It said “There,” and “Charles,” and died. Something fell with a clang.

Miss Silver turned her torch down, picked up a metal bar, and put it into Archie’s hand.

“What is it?”

“Well,” said Miss Silver—she gave a slight cough—“I believe it is called a jemmy—an instrument in use amongst burglars. I, of course, have my reputation to consider. But if you—” She coughed again. “It really seems quite providential—doesn’t it?”

“Heaven helps those who help themselves, in fact,” responded Archie.

Miss Silver proceeded to give him expert advice as to lock-breaking.

The silence of the inner cell had not been stirred. It settled heavily and more heavily still. It was half an hour since Charles had spoken and Margaret answered him. Their torment of thirst had begun. It was long past midday, and hope waned as the light wanes after sunset. Their sun had set. The little light of hope that had remained failed and was forgotten. They were forgotten in a dark, hidden place out of mind.

The first sound was faint. It jarred that settling silence— but so faintly that it might have been some ghostly mirage of sound, causeless and unreal.

Margaret stirred, moved her hand to meet Charles Moray’s hand, and turned her head to say on a whispering breath,

“Charles,—”

His hand pressed hers.

“Did you hear it?”

“Yes.”

“Charles—what was it?”

The silence settled again. That faint sound had reached them when the wine-cellar door gave way with a crash and set all the underground echoes calling.

Miss Silver flashed her torch round the well stocked bins, up to the low roof, down again to the flagged floor. At the far end a cask or two, packing-cases, a shred of white torn paper. She picked it up.

“They’ve been here, Mr. Millar. I think we’ll move those casks.”

On the other side of the casks and of that thick, deadening wall Margaret was listening as she had not listened since Freddy Pelham had left her in the dark alone. She could hear nothing.

But she had heard something. Suppose they came and went away again. The thought pierced to the quick. She tried to call out, but the terror of the thought took away her voice; it failed in a dry throat. She tried to tell Charles to shout. Her hand clung to his.

And suddenly the door swung in. The silence broke into harsh sound. The bolts went loudly back, and the door swung in. The noise was overwhelming. Archie’s shout shook the cellar, and a dancing, flashing ray struck her eyes like a blow. Darkness closed over her.

When she opened her eyes again, someone was giving her water to drink, and it was light. She looked at the light and wondered at it. Grey London light, but how beautiful! She drank again. Water—how lovely! Light—air—water! She drew a long, long breath, and came back from the half way place between dream and waking. She was lying on the sofa in the study. A little woman in a drab rain-coat was holding water to her lips in a cracked breakfast-cup.

Margaret took another lovely sip and sat up. She saw Charles, dusty, blood-stained, unshaven, his face smeared and dirtier than anything she could have imagined. He put down the cup from which he had been drinking, and came to her and kissed her. It didn’t matter how dirty his face was. How lovely! How lovely to be alive—to be together! The most exquisite happiness filled her. She began to cry.

Then all of a sudden she remembered Freddy Pelham, and her mother waiting in Vienna. She said,

“Freddy—someone must stop him!”

She sprang up.

“Charles—it isn’t too late! It isn’t, it isn’t too late—Archie!”

She turned to him with outstretched hands, and Archie Millar turned away.

Charles Moray put his arm about her.

“Better tell her,” he said in a low voice—he spoke to Miss Silver. Then, “Margaret—”

Miss Silver spoke in her colourless tones:

“Miss Langton, your mother is quite safe. Mr. Pelham has been—arrested.”

Margaret leaned against Charles. She felt weak and cold. Miss Silver took her hand and patted it. Her touch was kind.

“I bought a paper on my way here. Mr. Pelham was arrested in his flight. His aeroplane crashed in the fog. The pilot was picked up by a Channel boat. Mr. Pelham was drowned. Your mother, my dear, is quite safe.”

Margaret tried to say “Thank you.” She knew Miss Silver was kind. She knew that there had been deliverance. But she had come to the end of her strength.