The Air Pirate
town. The key of the front door hangs on a nail by the side. And if you
_should_ be going out later, Billy Pengelly's in the empty pigsty, a
sleeping off what he's had, and there's a bucket of cold water on the
wall. In half an hour's time or so I know as he'd be grateful for having
it poured over 'en!"
We promised to perform what was evidently one of the amenities of this
primitive place and Mr. Trewhella withdrew.
"That coastguard may be useful to me," Danjuro said. "And now, Sir John,
I don't want to hurry you, but my advice is that you start. I don't
suppose that the band has left Tregeraint yet. But there are a hundred
hiding-places on the moor all round the domain, and you may be able to
see which way they go before you make your own attempt. I shall be on
the trail in a very few minutes after you."
"And Charles? He will be back shortly."
"I shall need him. I know he would wish to be with you, Sir John, but I
believe your chances are better alone. I shall not leave until he
returns, provided he is not unduly detained."
He went to the window and pulled aside the curtain. "A waning moon," he
said, "which will be at full power about midnight, when there may be
such a battle in the air as the world will hear with wonder!"
I saw to my gear. It fitted about me very comfortably.
"Well, good-night," I said, and without further words I went quietly out
of the house.
When I got a hundred yards away I turned and looked at it, all silvered
in the moon. The air was sweet with the perfume of shy moorland flowers
that give up all their treasure to the night. The Atlantic, far below,
made a sound like fairy dreams, and on the distant slopes of Carne
Zerran an owl sounded his melancholy oboe note.
A lovely night, gentlemen!
CHAPTER XII
THE KILLING OF MICHAEL FEDDON
The moon was in its last quarter, and shed a faint spectral light over
the moor as I came quietly up to the first of the barbed-wire fences
that surrounded Tregeraint. I lay down in the heath, certain that I was
quite invisible, and waited.
An hour had hardly elapsed since the band had left "The Miners' Arms."
Were they still here, or had they set out for their unknown destination?
I could not hear a sound of any kind. From where I lay the high wall hid
the house, and among the mine buildings higher up there was neither
light nor movement. Tregeraint might have been deserted for a hundred
years, and the roaring company of the inn had vanished into thin air.
And strain my eyes as I would, there was no sign of the great Tibetan
dogs.
I remained motionless for a quarter of an hour by the illuminated dial
of my watch. Then, as nothing happened, I began operations. The wire
was tough and intricate, but ten minutes' work with Danjuro's powerful
cutters disposed of it sufficiently for me to crawl through both the
first and second fence without a scratch. I stood now in the lower
portion of a large, oblong paddock of short grass, all grey in the moon.
The surrounding wall of the Manor was about a hundred yards up the
slope, and with the gas rifle on my arm I glided over the intervening
space like a ghost. My boots were soled with india-rubber and I made no
sound at all.
I found the wall to be ten or eleven feet high. It was crowned with a
_cheval de frise_ of iron spikes, and, owing to its height and smooth
surface, quite insurmountable. But I knew there must be an entrance
somewhere, and never expected to climb the barrier, and I began a
cautious circuit. About half-way round the extent I came to a wooden
door set in the wall. It was a mere postern, not more than five feet
high, and had a barred _grille_ in the centre of about a foot square. I
reflected that this must be a side or garden exit, and that the main
gate was probably on the other side, facing the mine-head. But it was
all the better for my purpose if this was so, and I took out my steel
"jemmy" and prepared to tackle it.
My intention was to prise it open with my tool, for I am a very powerful
man, but suddenly another idea occurred to me. The bars of the _grille_
were old and rusted. As there was no key-hole in the door, it was
obviously secured by bolts. I inserted my lever, and without putting out
my full strength, and with little more sound than is made by the
striking of a match, soon had three of the bars out of the wood and
lying on the grass.
My arms are long. I pushed my right through and my fingers, after a
little groping, caught the handle of the bolt, which slid back easily
enough. It had been oiled and showed that the door, which swung back at
once, was in constant use.
I stepped within, treading like a cat, and closed the door behind me. I
stood in a large and neglected garden, where shrubs and flowers grew as
they would and formed a miniature jungle, through which I could see the
dark façade of the house, now quite close. Everything was as still as
death, and I listened with strained attention for several minutes. So
far the work had been ridiculously easy, but as I crept up a moss-grown
path towards the building every nerve was on the alert. I was not
afraid, I think I can truly say so, but there was a chill on my soul.
This old house, with its atmosphere of robbery and murder, its singular
and formidable inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and,
above all, the thought that Connie might be within it, all combined to
wrap me in a terrible gloom of the spirit. Yet, looking back, I see
that this was well. It hardened all my resolution and made me terrible.
I had no thought of it then, but now I can see the grim horror of such a
being as I had become approaching the house step by step....
All the lower windows were shuttered. There was not a gleam of light
anywhere as I followed the path and came to the front, where there was a
grass-grown gravel sweep and iron gates in the wall. This part of the
house was plain and unadorned, save for a pillared porch and steps
leading down to the drive. A thick growth of ivy covered it from the
ground to the first-floor windows, and after I had gently tried the
heavy front door, which, as I expected, was locked, this suggested a
mode of entrance. If I could climb up and get on to the roof of the
porch, it might be possible to force the central bedroom window, which I
could see was unshuttered.
The ivy was of ancient growth, the stems thick and tough. Any schoolboy
could have mounted to the top of the porch. And any boy could have
pushed back the catch of the window with the blade of his pocket-knife,
opened it and stepped inside.
I stood in a bedroom, dark, except for a little pool of moonlight by the
window. I felt curtains, and I drew them before I switched on my torch.
It was an ordinary bedroom, very untidy, furnished with a suite of
painted deal. There was, however, a great saucer-bath full of water, and
a pair of Indian clubs. The wall was hung with photographs of football
teams, and in an open drawer of the little dressing-table was a pile of
gold and notes.
Commonplace enough, like an undergraduate's room at Oxford, but,
nevertheless, it affected me unpleasantly. It was like a sudden intimacy
with something abominable, as I opened the door inch by inch, and felt
for the powerful pistol in my pocket. My heart hung poised for an
instant as I stepped out into a dark corridor, and then I gave a gasp,
and my heart almost stopped beating.
I stood at the head of broad, shallow stairs. Below was a large hall,
dimly lit, and pouring up to me in a volume of sound came the melodious
thunder of a piano played by a master hand!
At first my knees grew weak, and I clutched the shadowy banisters to
save me from falling. Constance! Who could be playing in this evil house
but she! I can never forget the agonized pang of mingled joy and horror
that I felt. But as I crouched and listened, the fierce emotion passed
away. Whoever was playing, it was not my girl. A lost soul made that
music.
I glided down the stairs. Certainly the wolves had left their lair,
though in what manner I could not divine. The house was inhabited by
but one or two people at most. All the doors along the corridor stood
open, as if the rooms had been left in a hurry. The building _felt_
deserted, empty of its usual inhabitants....
A dim light came from an open door at the right of the hall. I peeped in
and saw a long shadowy room of great size. The walls were panelled and
hung here and there with pictures, the floor carpeted. Two immense oak
tables, with their complement of chairs, went up and down the centre,
and it hardly needed a butler's hatch in the wall, doubtless
communicating with the kitchen, to tell me that this was the dining-room
of Helzephron and his buccaneers.
At the far end, and opposite the entrance door, was a wide and lofty
archway, half covered by a curtain. It led to another room beyond, and
it was from this that a bright light streamed, and the sound of music
came.
I placed my gas rifle on the floor by the wall, took out my automatic,
unlocking the safety catch, and went to the curtain on tiptoe. There was
an alcove at the side, where some shelves had been, and this was
perfectly dark. I marked it as a possible hiding-place, and then pulled
the curtain aside for half an inch. Just as I did so there was a clash
of prelude, and the pianist began the enchanted Third Ballade of Chopin.
It was the man known to me as Vargus, the man with the smooth voice,
the face that was evil and refined. He sat at a magnificent grand piano,
swaying a little on his stool....
Do you know that marvellous composition of Chopin's? Most people have
heard it at least once or twice in their lives, played by some
_maestro_. I have heard the renderings of the great pianists of the
world, but none played as this man played.
A terrible remorse informed the unearthly music. It was as though the
player strained with every power of his being to recapture something
irrevocably lost. When he came to that strange passage which has been so
often compared to the soft cantering of a horse, the pain in the lovely
chords was unbearable. The artist, Aubrey Beardsley, made a wonderful
drawing of this passage--a spectral white charger ambling through a dark
wood of pines, bearing a lady in a cloak of black velvet. The picture
rose before my eyes as I stood, but it flashed away, and words of awful
significance took its place in my mind and fitted themselves to the
closing chords....
"_Night and day he was among the tombs, and on the hills, crying
out and beating himself with stones._"
As you may know, the piece ends in a furious welter of sound. It had
just concluded, and the player sat motionless as a wax doll, when
another figure heaved itself into my line of vision, a burly giant,
with red hair and a heavy, sullen face.
"Now you've finished that ---- row," he growled, "we'd better be moving.
We may get signals coming through soon. And I suppose I must feed the
canaries!"
I knew the man at once. There was no possibility of mistake. It was
Michael Feddon, the famous Rugby international, and six years ago the
idol of the public. It was said that he was the finest back that England
had ever seen. In the height of his career he had been mixed up in a
horrible, criminal scandal, and received five years' penal servitude.
I swallowed in my throat with loathing, but the next words drove all
thought of Feddon's career from my mind.
"Everything is ready on a tray in the kitchen, and the soup is on the
electric stove. It will be hot by now," said Vargus, in his soft, creamy
voice.
"I'll get it, and I wish the damned business was over. I said from the
first that when the Chief brought those two women here we ran more risk
than ever before. It'll turn out badly yet. Mark my words, Vargus."