Book: The Vanished Messenger

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> The Vanished Messenger




"Who's there?" he cried. "Who's there, I say?"

There was no direct answer, only the door was pushed a little
further open. He had stepped close to it now. The sweep of the
wind was upon his face, although in the black darkness he could
see nothing. And then a sudden recollection flashed in upon him.
>From his trousers pocket he snatched a little electric torch. In
an instant his thumb had pressed the button. He turned it upon
the door. The shivering white hand which held it open was plainly
in view. It was the hand of a woman! He stepped swiftly forward.
A dark figure almost fell into his arms.

"Mrs, Fentolin!" he exclaimed, aghast.

An hysterical cry, choked and subdued, broke from her lips. He
half carried, half led her to his easy-chair. Suddenly steadied by
the presence of this unlooked-for emergency, he closed the outside
door and relit the lamp with firm fingers. Then he turned to face
her, and his amazement at this strange visit became consternation.

She was still in her dinner-gown of black satin, but it was soaked
through with the rain and hung about her like a black shroud. She
had lost one shoe, and there was a great hole in her silk stocking.
Her hair was all disarranged; one of its numerous switches was
hanging down over her ear. The rouge upon her cheeks had run down
on to her neck. She sat there, looking at him out of her hollow
eyes like some trapped animal. She was shaking with fear. It was
fear, not faintness, which kept her silent.

"Tell me, please, what is the matter?" he insisted, speaking as
indifferently as he could. "Tell me at once what has happened?"

She pointed to the door.

"Lock it!" she implored.

He turned down the latch and drew the bolt. The sound seemed to
give her a little courage. Her fingers went to her throat for a
moment.

"Give me some water."

He poured out some soda-water. She drank only o sip and put it down
again. He began to be alarmed. She had the appearance of one who
has suddenly lost her senses.

"Please tell me just what has happened?" he begged. "If I can help
in any way, you know I will. But you must tell me. Do you realise
that it is three o'clock? I should have been in bed, only I went
to sleep over the fire here."

"I know," she answered. "It is just the wind that has taken away
my breath. It was a hard struggle to get here. Listen - you are
our friend, Mr. Hamel - Esther's and mine? Swear that you are our
friend?"

"Upon my honour, I am," he assured her. "You should know that."

"For eight years," she went on, her voice clear enough now, although
it seemed charged with a curious metallic vibration, "for eight
years we've borne it, all three of us, slaves, bound hand and foot,
lashed with his tongue, driven along the path of his desires. We
have seen evil things. We have been on the point of rebellion, and
he's come a little nearer and he's pointed back. He has taken me by
the hand, and I have walked by the side of his chair, loathing it,
loathing myself, out on to the terrace and down below, just where
it happened. You know what happened there, Mr. Hamel?"

"You mean where Mr. Fentolin met with his accident."

"It was no accident!" she cried, glancing for a moment around her.
"It was no accident! It was my husband who took him up and threw
him over the terrace, down below; my husband who tried to kill him;
Esther's father - Gerald's father! Miles was in the Foreign Office
then, and he did something disgraceful. He sold a secret to Austria.
He was always a great gambler, and he was in debt. Seymour found
out about it. He followed him down here. They met upon the terrace.
I - I saw it!"

He was silent for a moment.

"No one has known the truth," he murmured.

"No one has ever known," she assented, "and our broken lives have
been the price. It was Miles himself who made the bargain. We - we
can't go on, Mr. Hamel."

"I begin to understand," Hamel said softly. "You suffer everything
from Miles Fentolin because he kept the secret. Very well, that
belongs to the past. Something has happened, something to-night,
which has brought you here. Tell me about it?"

Once more her voice began to shake.

"We've seen - terrible things - horrible things," she faltered.
"We've held our peace. Perhaps it's been nearly as bad before,
but we've closed our eyes; we haven't wanted to know. Now - we
can't help it. Mr. Hamel, Esther isn't at Lord Saxthorpe's.
She never went there. They didn't ask her. And Dunster - the
man Dunster -"

"'Where is Esther?" Hamel interrupted suddenly.

"Locked up away from you, locked up because she rebelled! "

"And Dunster?"

She shook her head. Her eyes were filled with horror.

"But he left the Hall - I saw him!"

She shook her head.

"It wasn't Dunster. It was the man Miles makes use of - Ryan, the
librarian. He was once an actor."

"Where is Dunster, then?" Hamel asked quickly. "What has become
of him?"

She opened her lips and closed them again, struggled to speak and
failed. She sat there, breathing quickly, but silent. The power
of speech had gone.




CHAPTER XXXII

Hamel, for the next few minutes, forgot everything else in his
efforts to restore to consciousness his unexpected visitor. He
rebuilt the fire, heated some water upon his spirit lamp, and forced
some hot drink between the lips of the woman who was now almost in
a state of collapse. Then he wrapped her round in his own ulster
and drew her closer to the fire. He tried during those few moments
to put away the memory of all that she had told him. Gradually she
began to recover. She opened her eyes and drew a little sigh. She
made no effort at speech, however. She simply lay and looked at
him like some wounded animal. He came over to her side and chafed
one of her cold hands.

"Come," he said at last, "you begin to look more like yourself now.
You are quite safe in here, and, for Esther's sake as well as your
own, you know that I am your friend."

She nodded, and her fingers gently pressed his.

"I am sure of it," she murmured.

"Now let us see where we are," he continued. "Tell me exactly why
you risked so much by leaving St. David's Hall to-night and coming
down here. Isn't there any chance that he might find out?"

"I don't know," she answered. "It was Lucy Price who sent me. She
came to my room just as I was undressing."

"Lucy Price," he repeated. "The secretary?"

"Yes! She told me that she had meant to come to you herself. She
sent me instead. She thought it best. This man Dunster is being
kept alive because there is something Miles wants him to tell him,
and he won't. But to-night, if he is still alive, if he won't tell,
they mean to make away with him. They are afraid."

"Miss Price told you this?" Hamel asked gravely.

Mrs, Fentolin nodded.

"Yes! She said so. She knows - she knows everything. She has
been like the rest of us. She, too, has suffered. She, too, has
reached the breaking point. She loved him before the accident.
She has been his slave ever since. Listen!"

She suddenly clutched his arm. They were both silent. There was
nothing to be heard but the wind. She leaned a little closer to
him.

"Lucy Price sent me here to-night because she was afraid that it
was to-night they meant to take him from his hiding-place and kill
him. The police have left off searching for Mr. Dunster in Yarmouth
and at The Hague. There is a detective in the neighbourhood and
another one on his way here. They are afraid to keep him alive any
longer."

"Where was Mr. Fentolin when you left?" Hamel asked.

"I asked Lucy Price that," she replied. "When she came to my room,
there were no signs of his leaving. She told me to come and tell
you everything. Do you know where Mr. Dunster is?"

Hamel shook his head.

" Within a few yards of here," she went on. "He is in the
boat-house, the place where Miles told you he kept a model of his
invention. They brought him here the night before they put his
clothes on Ryan and sent him off disguised as Mr. Dunster, in the
car to Yarmouth."

Hamel started up, but she clutched at his arm and pulled him back.
"No," she cried, "you can't break in! There are double doors and
a wonderful lock. The boat-house is yours; the building is yours.
In the morning you must demand the keys - if he does not come
to-night!"

"And how are we to know," Hamel asked, "if he comes to-night?"

"Go outside," she whispered. "Look towards St. David's Hall and
tell me how many lights you can see."

He drew back the bolt, unlatched the door, and stepped out into the
darkness. The wind and the driving rain beat against his face. A
cloud of spray enveloped and soaked him. Like lamps hung in the
sky, the lights of St. David's Hall shone out through the black
gulf. He counted them carefully; then he stepped back.

"There are seven," he told her, closing the door with an effort.

She counted upon her fingers.

"I must come and see," she muttered. "I must be sure. Help me."

He lifted her to her feet, and they staggered out together.

"Look!" she went on, gripping his arm. "You see that row of lights?
If anything happens, if Mr. Fentolin leaves the Hall to-night to
come down here, a light will appear on the left in the far corner.
We must watch for that light. We must watch -"

The words, whispered hoarsely into. his ear, suddenly died away.
Even as they stood there, far away from the other lights, another
one shone suddenly out in the spot towards which she had pointed,
and continued to burn steadily. He felt the woman who was clinging
to his arm become suddenly a dead weight.

"She was right!" Mrs. Pentolin moaned. "He is coming down to-night!
He is preparing to leave now; perhaps he has already started! What
shall we do? What shall we do?"

Hamel was conscious of a gathering sense of excitement. He, too,
looked at the signal which was flashing out its message towards them.
Then he gripped his companion's arm and almost carried her back into
the sitting-room.

"Look here," he said firmly, "you can do nothing further. You have
done your part and done it well. Stay where you are and wait. The
rest belongs to me."

"But what can you do?" she demanded, her voice shaking with fear.
"Meekins will come with him, and Doctor Sarson, unless he is here
already. What can you do against them? Meekins can break any
ordinary man's back, and Mr. Fentolin will have a revolver."

Hamel threw another log on to the fire and drew her chair closer
to it.

"Never mind about he declared cheerfully. "Mr. Fentolin is too
clever to attempt violence, except as a last resource. He knows
that I have friends in London who would need some explanation
of my disappearance. Stay here and wait."

She recognised the note of authority in his tone, and she bowed her
head. Then she looked up at him; she was a changed woman.

"Perhaps I have done ill to drag you into our troubles, Mr. Hamel,"
she said, "and yet, I believe in you. I believe that you really
care for Esther. If you can help us now, it will be for your
happiness, too. You are a man. God bless you!"

Hamel groped his way round the side of the Tower and took up a
position at the extreme corner of the landward side of the building,
within a yard of the closed doors. The light far out upon the left
was still gleaming brightly, but two of the others in a line with
it had disappeared. He flattened himself against the wall and
waited, listening intently, his eyes straining through the darkness.
Yet they were almost upon him before he had the slightest indication
of their presence. A single gleam of light in the path, come and
gone like a flash, the gleam of an electric torch directed
momentarily towards the road, was his first indication that they
were near. A moment or two later he heard the strange click, click
of the little engine attached to Mr. Fentolin's chair. Hamel set
his teeth and stepped a few inches further back. The darkness was
so intense that they were actually within a yard or so of him before
he could even dimly discern their shapes. There were three of them
- Mr. Fentolin in his chair, Doctor Sarson, and Meekins. They
paused for a moment while the latter produced a key. Hamel
distinctly heard a slow, soft whisper from Doctor Sarson.

"Shall I go round to the front and see that he is in bed?"

"No need," Mr. Fentolin replied calmly. "It is nearly four o'clock.
Better not to risk the sound of your footsteps upon the pebbles.
Now!"

The door swung noiselessly open. The darkness was so complete that
even though Hamel could have touched them with an outstretched hand,
their shapes were invisible. Hamel, who had formed no definite
plans, had no time to hesitate. As the last one disappeared through
the door, he, too, slipped in. He turned abruptly to the left and,
holding his breath, stood against the wall. The door closed behind
them. The gleam of the electric light flashed across the stone
floor and rested for a moment upon a trapdoor, which Meekins had
already stooped to lift. It fell back noiselessly upon rubber studs,
and Meekins immediately slipped through it a ladder, on either side
of which was a grooved stretch of board, evidently fashioned to
allow Mr. Fentolin's carriage to pass down. Hamel held his breath.
The moment for him was critical. If the light flashed once in his
direction, he must be discovered. Both Meekins and Doctor Sarson,
however, were intent upon the task of steering Mr. Fentolin's little
carriage down below. They placed the wheels in the two grooves,
and Meekins secured the carriage with a rope which he let run
through his fingers. As soon as the little vehicle had apparently
reached the bottom, he turned, thrust the electric torch in his
pocket, and stepped lightly down the ladder. Doctor Sarson
followed his example. They disappeared in perfect silence and left
the door open. Presently a gleam of light came travelling up, from
which Hamel knew that they had lit a lamp below. Very softly he
crept across the floor, threw himself upon his stomach and peered
down. Below him was a room, or rather a cellar, parts of which
seemed to have been cut out of the solid rock. Immediately
underneath was a plain iron bedstead, on which was lying stretched
the figure of a man. In those first few moments Hamel failed
altogether to recognise Mr. Dunster. He was thin and white, and
he seemed to have shrunken; his face, with its coarse growth of
beard, seemed like the face of an old man. Yet the eyes were open,
eyes dull and heavy as though with pain. So far no word had been
spoken, but at that moment Mr. Fentolin broke the silence.

"My dear guest," he said, "I bring you our most sincere apologies.
It has gone very much against the grain, I can assure you, to have
neglected you for so long a time. It is entirely the fault of the
very troublesome young man who occupies the other portion of this
building. In the daytime his presence makes it exceedingly
difficult for us to offer you those little attentions which you
might naturally expect."

The man upon the bed neither moved nor changed his position in any
way. Nor did he speak. All power of initiative seemed to have
deserted him. He lay quite still, his eyes fixed upon Mr. Fentolin.

"There comes a time," the latter continued, "when every one of us
is confronted with what might be described as the crisis of our
lives. Yours has come, my guest, at precisely this moment. It is,
if my watch tells me the truth, five and twenty minutes to four.
It is the last day of April. The year you know. You have exactly
one minute to decide whether you will live a short time longer, or
whether you will on this last day of April, and before - say, a
quarter to four, make that little journey the nature of which you
and I have discussed more than once."

Still the man upon the bed made no movement nor any reply. Mr.
Fentolin sighed and beckoned to Doctor Sarson.

"I am afraid," he whispered, "that that wonderful drug of yours,
Doctor, has been even a little too far-reaching in its results. It
has kept our friend so quiet that he has lost even the power of
speech, perhaps even the desire to speak. A little restorative,
I think - just a few drops."

Doctor Sarson nodded silently. He drew from his pocket a little
phial and poured into a wine-glass which stood on a table by the
side of the bed, half a dozen drops of some ruby-coloured liquid,
to which he added a tablespoonful of water. Then he leaned once
more over the bed and poured the contents of the glass between the
lips of the semi-conscious man.

"Give him two minutes," he said calmly. "He will be able to speak
then."

Mr. Fentolin nodded and leaned back in his chair. He glanced around
the room a little critically. There was a thick carpet upon the
floor, a sofa piled with cushions in one corner, and several other
articles of furniture. The walls, however, were uncovered and were
stained with damp. A great pink fungus stood out within a few
inches of the bed, a grim mixture of exquisite colouring and
loathsome imperfections. The atmosphere was fetid. Meekins suddenly
struck a match and lit some grains of powder in a saucer. A curious
odour of incense stole through the place. Mr. Fentolin nodded
appreciatively.

"That is better," he declared. " Really, the atmosphere here is
positively unpleasant. I am ashamed to think that our guest has
had to put up with it so long. And yet," he went on, "I think we
must call it his own fault. I trust that he will no longer be
obstinate."

The effect of the restorative began to show itself. The man on the
bed moved restlessly. His eyes were no longer altogether
expressionless. He was staring at Mr. Fentolin as one looks at some
horrible vision. Mr. Fentolin smiled pleasantly.

"Now you are looking more like your old self, my dear Mr. Dunster,"
he remarked. "I don't think that I need repeat what I said when I
first came, need I? You have just to utter that one word, and your
little visit to us will be at an end."

The man looked around at all of them. He raised himself a little
on his elbow. For the first time, Hamel, crouching above,
recognised any likeness to Mr. John P. Dunster.

"I'll see you in hell first!"

Mr. Fentolin's face momentarily darkened. He moved a little nearer
to the man upon the bed.

"Dunster," he said, "I am in grim earnest. Never mind arguments.
Never mind why I am on the other side. They are restless about you
in America. Unless I can cable that word to-morrow morning, they'll
communicate direct with The Hague, and I shall have had my trouble
for nothing. It is not my custom to put up with failure. Therefore,
let me tell you that no single one of my threats has been
exaggerated. My patience has reached its breaking point. Give me
that word, or before four o'clock strikes, you will find yourself
in a new chamber, among the corpses of those misguided fishermen,
mariners of ancient days, and a few others. It's only a matter of
fifty yards out to the great sea pit below the Dagger Rocks - I've
spoken to you about it before, haven't I? So surely as I speak to
you of it at this moment

Mr. Fentolin's speech came to an abrupt termination. A convulsive
movement of Meekins', an expression of blank amazement on the part
of Doctor Sarson, had suddenly checked the words upon his lips. He
turned his head quickly in the direction towards which they had been
gazing, towards which in fact, at that moment, Meekins, with a low
cry, had made a fruitless spring. The ladder down which they had
descended was slowly disappearing. Meekins, with a jump, missed
the last rung by only a few inches. Some unseen hand was drawing
it up. Already the last few feet were vanishing in mid-air. Mr.
Fentolin sat quite quiet and still. He looked through the trap-door
and saw Hamel.

"Most ingenious and, I must confess, most successful, my young
friend!" he exclaimed pleasantly. "When you have made the ladder
quite secure, perhaps you will be so good as to discuss this little
matter with us?"

There was no immediate reply. The eyes of all four men were turned
now upon that empty space through which the ladder had finally
disappeared. Mr. Fentolin's fingers disappeared within the pocket
of his coat. Something very bright was glistening in his hand when
he withdrew it.

"Come and parley with us, Mr. Hamel," he begged. "You will not find
us unreasonable."

Hamel's voice came back in reply, but Hamel himself kept well away
from the opening.

"The conditions," he said, "are unpropitious. A little time for
reflection will do you no harm."

The trap-doors were suddenly closed. Mr. Fentolin's face, as he
looked up, became diabolic.

"We are trapped!" he muttered; "caught like rats in a hole!"




CHAPTER XXXIII

A gleam of day was in the sky as Hamel, with Mrs. Fentolin by his
side, passed along the path which led from the Tower to St. David's
Hall. Lights were still burning from its windows; the outline of
the building itself was faintly defined against the sky. Behind
him, across the sea, was that one straight line of grey merging
into silver. The rain had ceased and the wind had dropped. On
either side of them stretched the brimming creeks.

"Can we get into the house without waking any one?" he asked.

"Quite easily," she assured him. "The front door is never barred."

She walked by his side, swiftly and with surprising vigour. In the
still, grey light, her face was more ghastly than ever, but there
was a new firmness about her mouth, a new decision in her tone.
They reached the Hall without further speech, and she led the way
to a small door on the eastern side, through which they entered
noiselessly and passed along a little passage out into the hall.
A couple of lights were still burning. The place seemed full of
shadows.

"What are you going to do now?" she whispered.

"I want to ring up London on the telephone," he replied. "I know
that there is a detective either in the neighbourhood or on his
way here, but I shall tell my friend that he had better come down
himself."

She nodded.

"I am going to release Esther," she said. "She is locked in her
room. The telephone is in the study. I will come down there to
you."

She passed silently up the broad staircase. Hamel groped his way
across the hail into the library. He turned on the small electric
reading-lamp and drew up a chair to the side of the telephone. Even
as he lifted the receiver to his ear, he looked around him half
apprehensively. It seemed as though every moment he would hear the
click of Mr. Fentolin's chair.

He got the exchange at Norwich without difficulty, and a few minutes
later a sleepy reply came from the number he had rung up in London.
It was Kinsley's servant who answered.

"I want to speak to Mr. Kinsley at once upon most important
business," Hamel announced.

"Very sorry, sir," the man replled. "Mr. Kinsley left town last
night for the country."

"Where has he gone?" Hamel demanded quickly. "You can tell me.
You know who I am; I am Mr. Hamel."

"Into Norfolk somewhere, sir. He went with several other gentlemen."

"Is that Bullen?" Hamel asked.

The man admitted the fact.

"Can you tell me if any of the people with whom Mr. Kinsley left
London were connected with the police?" he inquired.

The man hesitated.

"I believe so, sir," he admitted. "The gentlemen started in a
motor-car and were going to drive all night."

Hamel laid down the receiver. At any rate, he would not be left
long with this responsibility upon him. He walked out into the hall.
The house was still wrapped in deep silence. Then, from somewhere
above him, coming down the stairs, he heard the rustle of a woman's
gown. He looked up, and saw Miss Price, fully dressed, coming
slowly towards him. She held up her finger and led the way back
into the library. She was dressed as neatly as ever, but there
was a queer light in her eyes.

"I have seen Mrs. Seymour Fentolin," she said. "She tells me that
you have left Mr. Fentolin and the others in the subterranean room
of the Tower."

Hamel nodded.

"They have Dunster down there," he told her. "I followed them in;
it seemed the best thing to do. I have a friend from London who is
on his way down here now with some detective officers, to enquire
into the matter of Dunster's disappearance."

"Are you going to leave them where they are until these people
arrive?" she asked.

"I think so," he replied, after a moment's hesitation. "I don't
seem to have had time to consider even what to do. The opportunity
came, and I embraced it. There they are, and they won't dare to
do any further harm to Dunster now. Mrs. Fentolin was down in my
room, and I thought it best to bring her back first before I even
parleyed with them again.

" You must be careful," she advised slowly. The man Dunster has
been drugged, he has lost some of his will; he may have lost some
of his mental balance. Mr. Fentolin is clever. He will find a
dozen ways to wriggle out of any charge that can be brought against
him. You know what he has really done?"

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