Room 13
tried to open the door, but it was locked.”
“Are you sure of that, Peter?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“How long after was this?”
“About half an hour. It took me all that time to get up the stairs,
because I had to fight the dope all the way. I heard somebody moving
about, and slipped into one of the other rooms, and then I heard the
window pulled down and locked. I didn’t want to go to sleep, for fear
they discovered me; but I must have dozed, for when I woke up, it was
dark and cold, and I heard no sound at all. I tried the door of
thirteen again, but could make no impression on it. So I went to
Emanuel’s office. I know the place very well: I used to go in there in
the old days, before Emanuel went to jail, and I knew all about the
spiral staircase to the roof. All along I suspected that the hut
they’d put on the roof was the place where the slush was printed. But
here I was mistaken, for I had no sooner got into the room than I saw
that it was where the engraver worked. There was a plate on the edge
of a shaft. I suppose I was still dizzy, because I fumbled at it. It
slipped through my hand, and I heard a clang come up from somewhere
below.”
“How did you get into this room?”
“The door was open,” was the surprising reply. “I have an idea that it
is one of those doors that can only be opened and closed from the
inside. The real door of the room is in the room in Emanuel’s office.
It is the only way in, and the only way out, both from the basement
and the room on the roof. I don’t know what happened after that. I
must have laid down, for by now the dope was working powerfully. I
ought to let Marney know I’m all right. She’ll be worried.…”
He saw something in the detective’s face, something that made his
heart sink.
“Marney! Is anything wrong with Marney?” he asked quickly.
“I don’t know. She went out last night--or rather, early this
morning--and has not been seen since.”
Peter listened, stricken dumb by the news. It seemed to Mr. Reeder
that he aged ten years in as few minutes.
“Now, Kane, you’ve got to tell me all you know about Legge,” said
Reeder kindly. “I haven’t any doubt that Jeffrey’s taken her to the
big printing place. Where is it?”
Peter shook his head.
“I haven’t the least idea,” he said. “The earlier slush was printed in
this building; in fact, it was printed in Room 13. I’ve known that for
a long time. But as the business grew, young Legge had to find another
works. Where he has found it is a mystery to me, and to most other
people.”
“But you must have heard rumours?” persisted Reeder.
Again Peter shook his head.
“Remember that I mix very little with people of my own profession, or
my late profession,” he said. “Johnny and old Barney are about the
only crooks I know, outside of the Legge family. And Stevens, of
course--he was in jail ten years ago. I’ve lost touch with all the
others, and my news has come through Barney, though most of Barney’s
gossip is unreliable.”
They reached Barney by telephone, but he was unable to give any
information that was of the slightest use. All that he knew was that
the printing works were supposed to be somewhere in the west.
“Johnny knows more about it than I do, or than anybody. All the boys
agree as to that,” said Barney. “They told him a lot in ‘boob.’”
Leaving Peter to return home, Mr. Reeder made a call at Johnny’s flat.
Parker was up. He had been notified earlier in the morning of his
master’s disappearance, but he had no explanation to offer.
He was preparing to give a list of the clothes that Johnny had been
wearing, but Reeder cut him short impatiently.
“Try to think of Mr. Gray as a human being, and not as a tailor’s
dummy,” he said wrathfully. “You realise that he is in very grave
danger?”
“I am not at all worried, sir,” said the precise Parker. “Mr. Gray was
wearing his new sock suspenders----”
For once Mr. Reeder forgot himself.
“You’re a damned fool, Parker,” he said.
“I hope not, sir,” said Parker as he bowed him out.
CHAPTER XXIX
It was five minutes past two in the morning when Marney, sitting in
the drawing-room at the front of the house, heard the sound of an auto
stop before the house. Going into the hall, she opened the door, and,
standing on the step, peered into the darkness.
“Is that you, father?” she asked.
There was no reply, and she walked quickly up the garden path to the
gate. The car was a closed coupé, and as she looked over the gate,
she saw a hand come out and beckon her, and heard a voice whisper:
“Don’t make a noise. Come in here; I want to talk to you. I don’t want
Barney to see me.”
Bewildered, she obeyed. Jerking open the door, she jumped into the
dark interior, by the side of the man at the wheel.
“What is it?” she asked.
Then, to her amazement, the car began to move toward the main road. It
had evidently circled before it had stopped.
“What is the matter, father?” she asked.
And then she heard a low chuckle that made her blood run cold.
“Go into the back and stay there. If you make a row, I’ll spoil that
complexion of yours, Marney Legge!”
“Jeffrey!” she gasped.
She gripped the inside handle of the door and had half turned it when
he caught her with his disengaged hand and flung her into the back of
the car.
“I’ll kill you if you make me do that again.” There was a queer little
sob of pain in his voice, and she remembered his wound.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“I’m taking you to your father,” was the unexpected reply. “Will you
sit quiet? If you try to get away, or attempt to call assistance, I’ll
drive you at full speed into the first tree I see, and we’ll finish
the thing together.”
From the ferocity of his tone she did not doubt that he would carry
his threat into execution. Mile after mile the car sped on, flashing
through villages, slowing through the sparsely peopled streets of
small towns. It was nearing three o’clock when they came into the
street of a town and, looking through the window, she saw a grey
façade and knew she was in Oxford.
In ten minutes they were through the city and traversing the main
western road. And now, for the first time, Jeffrey Legge became
communicative.
“You’ve never been in ‘boob,’ have you, angel?” he asked.
She did not answer.
“Never been inside the little bird-house with the other canaries, eh?
Well, that’s an experience ahead of you. I am going to put you in
jail, kid. Peter’s never been in jail either, but he nearly had the
experience to-night.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “My father has not broken the law.”
“Not for a long time, at any rate,” agreed Jeffrey, dexterously
lighting a cigarette with one hand. “But there’s a little ‘boob’
waiting for him all right now.”
“A prison?” she said incredulously. “I don’t believe you.”
“You’ve said that twice, and you’re the only person living that’s
called me a liar that number of times.”
He turned off into a side road, and for a quarter of an hour gave her
opportunity for thought.
“It might interest you to know that Johnny is there,” he said. “Dear
little Johnny! The easiest crook that ever fell--and this time he’s
got a lifer.”
The car began to move down a sharp declivity, and, looking through the
rain-spattered wind-screen, she saw a squat, dark building ahead.
“Here we are,” he said, as the car stopped.
Looking through the window she saw, with a gasp of astonishment, that
he had spoken the truth. They were at the door of a prison. The great,
black, iron-studded gates were opening as she looked, and the car
passed through under the deep archway and stopped.
“Get down,” said Jeff, and she obeyed.
A narrow black door led from the archway, and, following her, he
caught her by the arm and pushed her through. She was in a narrow
room, the walls of which were covered with stained and discoloured
whitewash. A large fire-place, overflowing with ashes, a rickety chair
and a faded board screwed to the wall were the only furniture. In the
dim light of a carbon lamp she saw the almost indistinguishable words:
“His Majesty’s Prison, Keytown,” and beneath, row after row of closely
set regulations. A rough-looking, powerfully-built man had followed
her into the room, which was obviously the gate-keeper’s lodge.
“Have you got the cell ready?”
“Yes, I have,” said the man. “Does she want anything to eat?”
“If she does, she’ll want,” said Jeff curtly.
He took off his greatcoat and hung it on a nail, and then, with
Jeffrey’s hand gripping her arm, she was led again into the archway
and across a small courtyard, through an iron grille gate and a
further door. A solitary light that burnt in a bracket near the door,
showed her that she was in a small hall. Around this, at the height of
about nine feet from the ground, ran a gallery, which was reached by a
flight of iron stairs. There was no need to ask what was the meaning
of those two rows of black doors that punctured the wall. They were
cells. She was in a prison!
While she was wondering what it all meant, a door near at hand was
unlocked, and she was pushed in. The cell was a small one, the floor
of worn stone, but a new bedstead had been fitted up in one corner.
There was a washstand; and, as she was to discover, the cell
communicated with another containing a stone bath and wash-place.
“The condemned cell,” explained Jeffrey Legge with relish. “You’ll
have plenty of ghosts to keep you company to-night, Marney.”
In her heart she was panic-stricken, but she showed none of her fear
as she faced him.
“A ghost would be much less repulsive to me than you, Jeffrey Legge,”
she said, and he seemed taken aback by the spirit she displayed.
“You will have both,” he said, as he slammed the door on her and
locked it.
The cell was illuminated by a feeble light that came through an opaque
pane of glass by the side of the door. Presently, when her eyes grew
accustomed to the semi-darkness, she was able to take stock of her
surroundings. The prison must have been a very old one, for the walls
were at one place worn smooth, probably by the back of some condemned
unfortunate who had waited day after day for the hour of doom. She
shuddered, as her imagination called to her the agony of soul which
these four walls had held.
By standing on the bed she could reach a window. That also was of
toughened glass, set in small, rusty frames. Some of the panes were
missing, but she guessed that the outlook from the window would not be
particularly promising, even supposing she could force the window.
The night had been unusually cold and raw for the time of year, and,
pulling a blanket from the bed, she wrapped it about her and sat down
on the stool, waiting for the light to grow.
And so sitting, her weary eyes closing involuntarily, she heard a
stealthy tapping. It came from above, and her heart fluttered at the
thought that possibly, in the cell above her, her father was held… or
Johnny.
Climbing on to the bed, she rapped with her knuckles on the stone
ceiling. Somebody answered. They were tapping a message in Morse,
which she could not understand. Presently the tapping ceased. She
heard footsteps above. And then, looking by chance at the broken pane
of the window, she saw something come slowly downward and out of view.
She leapt up, gripping the window pane, and saw a piece of black silk.
With difficulty two fingers touched it at last and drew it gently in
through the window pane. She pulled it up, and, as she suspected,
found a piece of paper tied to the end.
It was a bank-note. Bewildered, she gazed at it until it occurred to
her that there might be a message written on the other side. The
pencil marks were faint, and she carried the note as near to the light
as she could get.
“_Who is there? Is it you, Peter? I am up above. Johnny._”