The girl from Scotland Yard
knees were trembling as he mounted the stairs, the precious garments
close to his heart. Putting down the lamp on the table, he examined
again these pitiful souvenirs. He must see Leslie at once. Not daring
to leave the clothes behind, he folded them and put them into his
pocket. He used the silk shawl as a neckcloth under his thin overcoat;
the night was bitterly cold, but it was not the warmth of the soft
fabric which brought a glow to his heart.
The windows of the flat were in darkness, but he remembered that they
had heavy velvet curtains, and possibly they were drawn. Ringing the
bell, he waited. There was no answer. He rang again. And then a man
appeared from a near-by doorway and strolled up to him.
“Who do you want?” he asked, in a tone of authority. Peter guessed
that he was a detective.
“I want Miss Maughan. My name is Dawlish.”
“Oh, Dawlish, yes. Miss Maughan isn’t in. She is staying at Inspector
Coldwell’s house in Finchley. There is nobody in the flat.”
He did not hide his disappointment; he was so full of his discovery
that he had to tell somebody. He had to see her. The detective gave
him the inspector’s address and he walked across the Charing Cross
Road, intending to make his way to the tube station. He reached the
other side of the road, and then something made him look back at the
windows of her apartments. And in that instant he saw a quick flicker
of light, as though somebody had turned on an electric hand lamp for
the fraction of a second and had extinguished it immediately.
Peter stopped. Somebody was in Leslie’s room. He walked slowly across
the road. The detective had disappeared; was, in point of fact,
walking to the back of the block to visit his fellow watcher. As Peter
stood, hesitating, he saw the street door move slightly, and, acting
on an impulse, he pushed it wide open and took one step into the
darkness.
“Who’s there?” he said, and that was all that he remembered.
Something soft and heavy fell with a thud on his head, crushing his
soft hat as though it were paper. He stumbled on to his knees, and a
second blow laid him prostrate, the blood trickling down his face and
staining the soft silk that had once enwrapped his child.
There were no loiterers in Charing Cross Road that bitter night, when
a chill northwest wind sent people hurrying to the shelter of their
homes. There was no lounger to tell the detective of three people who
had walked hurriedly across the sidewalk into the car which was
drawing to the curb at the very moment Peter pushed open the door.
CHAPTER XXI.
ANITA’S CARDS
As the car moved off a man came running across the road, stepped
lightly on to the foot-board and wriggled his way to a place beside
the driver. The car was held up outside the Hippodrome but only for a
few seconds, and then, turning, it sped wheezily along Coventry
Street. They had a good crossing of Piccadilly Circus, and a few
seconds later they had struck the gloom of lower Piccadilly and had
turned into Hyde Park.
Leslie had a glimpse now of the faces of her captors: yellow, with
that Oriental slant of the eye which is common to the Chinese and
Japanese. Here the likeness ended; their faces lacked the intelligence
of the people of the island kingdoms.
Javanese, of course! How stupid she had been not to have realized that
from the first! Anita Bellini had lived in Java for many years. And
then she remembered Peter’s words. She understood the chained door
because of the attack that had been made on her flat. Anita’s
bodyguard had been engaged elsewhere; she had need of chains to
protect her house in their absence.
The car slipped across Hammersmith Bridge, and after a few minutes she
could identify the spot where the body of Druze had been found. They
were going to Wimbledon, then--to Anita’s grisly house.
The machine came to a stop before the door of May Towers and she
hurried up the steps. She had not reached the top before the door was
opened. No light showed in the hall, and she heard the door clang
behind her and a chain rattle as it was fastened, and her courage
almost deserted her. Somebody flashed the light of a hand lamp; she
saw the wide, heavily carpeted stairs.
“Go up,” said her conductor, his hand still on her arm, and she
obeyed.
The stairs turned and they reached a wide landing. Somebody knocked at
a door, and a voice which she recognized as Anita’s said:
“Come in.”
The man who had knocked pushed the door open wide. She had a glimpse
of a lofty wall, hidden by a black curtain which was covered with
curious designs in gold threadwork. The room was filled with an
unearthly greenish light; the hand of the jailer fell from her arm;
she walked into the room alone, and the door closed behind her.
It was a long and ill-proportioned salon. With the exception of a
divan at the far end and a low table near by, it was bare of
furniture. The carpet underfoot was either purple or black; in the
queer light of two green lamps that burned on either side of the
settee it was impossible to distinguish its colour.
Anita Bellini sat cross-legged on the divan, horribly suggestive of
some repellent and grotesque idol in her golden frock. Her massive
arms were smothered from wrist to elbow with glittering bracelets.
Three ropes of pearls hung about her strong neck, and every time her
hands moved they sparkled and scintillated brilliantly. A long ebony
cigarette holder was between her lips; that immovable monocle of hers
gleamed greenly.
“Come along, Maughan; sit here.” She pointed to the floor, and, black
against black, invisible from where she had paused when she had
entered the room, Leslie saw a heap of cushions.
She sat obediently, looking up into the coarse face. So they sat
surveying one another for a space, and then, flicking the ash from her
cigarette, Anita Bellini spoke.
“You have brains, I suppose?”
“I suppose so,” said Leslie coolly.
“Sufficient brains to know that I wouldn’t take the risk of bringing
you here--abducting is the word, I think--unless my position was
rather desperate. I’d have killed you last night, but that would have
been a fatal mistake. You are much more useful to me alive.”
Leslie smiled faintly.
“Which sounds like a line from a melodrama!” she said.
“The Javanese are a gentle, kindly people,” Anita said slowly, “but in
some ways--they are not nice.”
“I understand this is a threat as to what will happen to me if I do
not do something you wish?”
“You’re a sensible girl,” said Anita Bellini, and leaned forward, her
elbows on her knees. She was very much like a fishwife in that
attitude; there was something inexpressibly common about her, in spite
of her monocle and her Parisian gown, and the luxury of her
surroundings. “This afternoon”--she was still speaking very slowly and
distinctly--“Coldwell applied to the Bow Street magistrate for a
warrant--a warrant for my arrest and a search of this house. Did you
know that?”
Leslie was genuinely astonished and shook her head.
“I had no idea, and I can’t think that what you say is true,” she
said. “Mr. Coldwell made no mention of any such arrest; in fact, I was
spending the night at his house, and I know he had arranged----”
Anita broke into her explanation.
“He applied. Whether the warrant was granted or not, I do not know.
That is one point. Another is this: you visited Greta Gurden to-night,
and she told you the one thing in the world I wished that she should
not tell--I know because I saw you go in and come out of her flat, and
I have seen Greta since,” she added grimly. “It isn’t necessary for me
to tell you the vital information you discovered.”
“It isn’t,” said Leslie. “But I might have found that out anyway. In
fact, I should, if I’d had the sense to go straight to Doctor Wesley
and ask him how long before Donald Dawlish’s death he was unconscious.
I’ve always suspected that the alteration of that will was a forgery.
I saw a copy of it, and I have compared it with the signature of
Donald Dawlish. It would not have been very difficult to prove that
the new will which gave Mrs. Dawlish the whole of her husband’s
fortune and which disinherited Peter, was a forgery from beginning to
end. The doctor will, of course, prove that beyond any question. On
the day he was supposed to have made the new will, Mr. Dawlish did not
recover consciousness. Surely, Princess, you don’t imagine that you
will get away with that! Mr. Dawlish’s lawyers have always been
dissatisfied with the will that was made without consultation, and
which was only proved because they could not induce Peter Dawlish to
contest its validity.”
Anita Bellini made no answer to this.
“I’m chiefly concerned with myself and my own safety,” she said at
last. “You’ve got to help me, and Martha must look after herself.
You’ve got to help clear me. I’m going to make you a very good
offer--a hundred thousand pounds.”
Leslie shook her head.
“Not all the money in the world will influence me, Princess,” she
said. “How could I clear you? You talk as though I were the chief of
the Detective Bureau and had authority to divert the processes of the
law! The person you must see is Lady Raytham, whom you have
blackmailed for years, and even if she were agreeable, the law
requires that you shall explain the death of Annie Druze.”
“It was an accident.”
Leslie nodded.
“I know--or rather, I guessed. But that has got to come into the
light, and it cannot come into the light unless the story of the
blackmail is revealed. I am willing to do this: let me walk out of
your door unharmed, and the little adventure of to-night will be
forgotten. I will forget your Javanese, I will forget what happened
last night. Tell me where I can find”--she paused--“Elizabeth
Dawlish.”
“There is no such person,” said Anita harshly.
“Elizabeth Dawlish,” repeated Leslie, “Peter’s daughter.”
Princess Anita Bellini was not smoking now. She had the holder in her
hand, turning it over and over and examining it critically as though
she were looking for some defect.
“You’ve got to get me out of this mess, Leslie Maughan.”
Leslie rose to her feet.
“I thought you were clever!” she said, with a note of contempt in her
voice. “Nothing can get you out--nothing!”
“Is that so?” Anita’s voice was soft and silky. “Do you realize, my
good woman, that if I can’t get out, who has put me in--you! You’ve
been prying into the history of the Druzes, have you? Ah, ha!” She
laughed harshly. “I know a great deal more than you imagine. And
you’ve been putting the little pieces together to trap Anita--poor old
Anita, eh?” She showed her big white teeth in a mirthless smile, and
suddenly slipped from the divan and drew near to the girl. She clapped
her hands twice.
The room was seemingly empty; yet at that signal half a dozen little
men appeared as if by magic from behind the long curtains. Anita, her
face swollen with rage, spluttered something and the squat shapes came
shuffling toward her.
Leslie did not move. She stood erect, her hands by her sides, her pale
face turned to the woman. Even when they seized her, she did not
resist, but allowed herself to be hurried behind the fold of a curtain
and through a door into a stuffy little room into which she was
thrust. The door was closed on her, a lock snapped; from the other
side of the door a mocking voice called to her.
“Now I will be avenged.”
Leslie stooped, pulled up her skirt, and unstrapped an appendage from
a garter. It was a small-calibre weapon. She slipped back the jacket,
forced in a cartridge, and brought the catch to safety. Then she began
to explore.
The furniture of the room was a little tawdry. The divan, which seemed
an indispensable adjunct to every room, was old and worn; a shaded