The girl from Scotland Yard
light hung from the ceiling; there were two brass dishes attached to
the wall. It appeared to be the apartment of a highly favoured upper
servant, and this she confirmed when she turned over the coverings of
the divan and saw what was apparently a suit of native clothing.
There was a second door to the room and this she tried. Then, to her
surprise and delight, she saw that there was a key on the outside. She
turned this, and to her relief it opened, and she found herself in a
very conventional bedroom, the type of apartment she would have
expected to discover in any of the houses on Wimbledon Common. No
lights were burning and it was inadvisable to switch them on. Softly
she closed the door of the room she had left, and tiptoeing across the
floor, felt her way to the bedroom door. She turned the handle softly
and looked out.
Happily, the two men who stood on the landing had their backs turned
to her. She closed the door again, in an agony of fear lest she should
make a sound. Running quickly across the bedroom, she tried the
windows. They were not only fastened and barred, but, as a further
barrier to egress, the bars were covered with a stout wire screen.
Perhaps there was a bathroom, she thought, and groped along the wall.
After a while she felt the handle of a door and opened it gingerly.
She must risk putting on the light for a second, and this she did.
It was evidently used as a dressing room, and there was another door
which, she guessed, led to a second bedroom. She turned out the
lights; the door was locked, and again the key was on the outside. For
a moment she suspected a trap and hesitated, but after a moment turned
the key and entered the room, only to draw back instantly. Somebody
was there; she heard the sound of breathing, and a tiny creak as
though a body was turning in bed. And then:
“Who is it, please?” asked a voice, and Leslie nearly dropped.
For the child who spoke from the darkness was Elizabeth!
“Don’t make a sound,” she whispered, and, taking out the key, closed
the door and locked it on the inside.
Only then did she feel for the light switch. The room was a small one
and apparently there was no other way out than that by which she had
come. The small window was barred and wired; the window itself was of
opaque glass. She looked round at Elizabeth; she was sitting up in a
small bed, looking with astonishment at this unexpected vision. Then
suddenly she leaped out of bed and came running toward the girl, and
Leslie caught her in her arms.
“Are you going to take me away? I’m so frightened. These little men
frighten me. I told you about them. One came and left the pistol with
Mother. Oh, take me away, please, please!”
Leslie gathered the frail form in her arms and kissed her.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said, but without any great
conviction. “Tell me quickly, Elizabeth! Is there another way out of
this room?”
To her surprise, the child pointed to a plain wardrobe which stood
against the wall.
“She comes through there sometimes,” she whispered. “A terrible
woman--with an eyeglass. She told me that if I made any trouble, one
of the black men would kill me.” The child shuddered.
Putting her gently away, Leslie went to the wardrobe and pulled open
the door. The wardrobe was empty and reached from the floor to the
height of her head. The back was undoubtedly a door; there was no
disguise about it. There was neither keyhole nor handle. Using all her
strength, she pushed, and the door swung open; it had been fastened by
a very simple spring catch.
She returned to Elizabeth and wrapped a bedspread round her thin
shoulders.
“You’re to be very brave and very quiet,” she whispered. “Come with
me.”
The child hesitated.
“She told me I must never go through there,” she began, but Leslie
reassured her, and they passed through into an apartment which was
also a bedroom though apparently out of use. The bed was not made, and
some of the furniture was shrouded in Holland covers.
Again Leslie opened the main door, this time to find herself on
another landing. There was nobody in sight. Down below, at the foot of
a narrow flight of stairs, a light burned dimly.
“You’ve got a pistol, too,” whispered the child in wonder, and Leslie
smiled.
“Don’t talk,” she whispered into Elizabeth’s ear, and led the way down
the stairs.
They terminated in a small passage, paved with tiles. As she reached
the foot of the stairs she heard the sound of voices, and, looking
round cautiously, she saw that under the stairs was a door, and it was
open. At the far end of the passage was another, and this obviously
led to the outside of the house, for it was chained and bolted.
As she stood, debating what she should do, the voices grew fainter,
and the patch of light on the wall which marked the open door
disappeared. It was her chance. Grasping the child by the arm, she
slipped off her shoes and hurried noiselessly along the passage in her
stockinged feet.
She had reached the door, and with fingers which, in spite of her
will, trembled, moved first one chain and then another. The top and
bottom bolts were drawn; her hand was on the key, when from somewhere
above came an outcry. A bell rang, a door under the stairs was flung
open and three men ran out. The first two did not see her, but made
for the stairs. The third caught sight of her over his shoulder and
yelled a warning. In an instant the three men were flying toward her.
Twice the little pistol banged, and one man slid to the ground with a
yell, grasping his knee. And then they were on her and she was
fighting desperately for life.
She heard the scream of the child and called out to her to open the
door and escape. But Elizabeth was too petrified with terror to make
any movement.
They carried Leslie Maughan, trussed and bound, into the purple salon
and laid her at Anita’s feet. And then the man who spoke English
lifted his hand.
“Lady,” he said, “here is the woman. What shall be done?”
Anita pointed to him with her thick jewelled finger.
“This night you shall have the privilege of torturing her,” she said,
in her grating voice.
CHAPTER XXII.
A REAL FATHER
It seemed to Peter Dawlish that he had been unconscious for an
eternity when he turned over on his back with a groan and carefully
felt his damaged head. His face was wet and sticky, and when he
essayed to rise to his feet, it seemed that the whole of the building
was oscillating violently. Presently, however, he was up, keeping to
the wall for support, and, grasping the handle of the door, he jerked
it open and was instantly gripped with hands of steel.
“Hullo, who are you?” asked a stern voice.
“I don’t know--Dawlish--something happened. I saw a light and came
over--and then the door opened and I don’t remember much more.”
The detective recognized him.
“The door opened?” he said anxiously. “Was somebody in the flat?”
Peter nodded and winced.
“Give me a drink,” he said, and the detective guided him by the arm
and led him upstairs to Leslie’s room.
A glass of ice-cold water revived him and he was able to tell a
coherent story of his experience.
“It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes ago,” said the detective.
“I went round to see my opposite number and I’ll swear I wasn’t gone
for more than that time.”
Suddenly he stooped to the floor and took up something. It was a loose
native slipper that had slipped from the foot of Leslie’s captor in
the hurry of departure. The light he had shown when he searched for
this was the light that Peter saw.
“Just wait! I’ll call Mr. Coldwell.”
Inspector Coldwell was at dinner when the message came.
“Hang on, I’ll come down,” he said. “I’ve had a wire from Miss Maughan
that she’s going to Plymouth, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
He was in the flat twenty minutes later. By this time Peter’s wound
had been roughly dressed, and he had washed the stains from his face.
Save for the throb of the wound, he was little the worse for his
experience.
“They coshed you with a rubber club; it is rather a good method,” said
Coldwell callously.
He looked round the room with pursed lips and a frown.
“It doesn’t follow that because those birds were here, she was here,”
he said, and glanced at his watch. “Too early for Miss Maughan to have
arrived at Plymouth. Just wait! I want to make sure.”
He drove to the telegraph office from which the message had been sent,
and was fortunate to find the postmaster just leaving his office.
“I want to see the telegram that was sent from here about five o’clock
to-night addressed to me.”
“You want to see the original telegram, I suppose? That won’t be
difficult.”
It was more difficult than he supposed, and half an hour’s precious
time was wasted before the pencilled form was produced. Coldwell had
only to glance at the writing to know that it was not in Leslie’s
hand. Yet a woman had written it; that was obvious from the
characteristic writing.
He returned to the flat and sent the detective in a cab to Scotland
Yard and Peter employed this interval to tell him of what he had found
in Mrs. Inglethorne’s box.
“I pretty well guess that,” said Inspector Coldwell. “So did
Leslie--Miss Maughan. ‘The son’ meant nothing. This unfortunate lady
had intended to keep the child with her if it was a girl, and that was
not the wish of the gang who were bleeding her. They told her she had
a son. But I’m going to make sure about that before we go any further.
Somehow I’m not so scared about Leslie Maughan as I ought to be
perhaps. She’s got a sort of gun.”
A quarter of an hour later, his cab drew up before the gloomy doors of
Holloway Prison and after a strict scrutiny of his credentials he was
admitted and conducted to one of the main halls of the jail, where the
remand prisoners were housed. The chief wardress opened the door and
went in. Presently she came out and beckoned him into the cell.
Mrs. Inglethorne was sitting, a scowl on her face, her big, raw hands
clasped before her. She knew Coldwell, and lifted her lip in a grin of
rage.
“Don’t you come in here!” she said shrilly. “I’m not going to talk to
you. If you want to find that kid, you go and find her! And that’ll
take you some time, I’ll bet!”
“Listen!” Coldwell had a very direct way with criminals. “Whether
you’ll get a nine-month or more depends on the answer you give me,
Mrs. Inglethorne. There’s just a chance that you may get something
worse.”
She scowled up at him.
“What do you mean?”
Very deliberately he sketched a portion of her life: told her where
she had lived, and how long she had stayed in her various places of
abode. She made no comment or correction, looking down at her hands,
and only when he paused did she meet his eyes.
“Is that all?” she asked insolently.
“Not quite all. You have been engaged in baby farming for the past
twenty years. In 1916, in the month of July, you received from one
called Arthur Druze a baby boy of a few days old. Where is that
child?”
“You’d better find out,” she said.
The detective’s eyes narrowed.
“It is for you to find out,” he said, in that hard, metallic voice
which he adopted on occasions. “You have to prove to me that that
child is alive or there’s another charge against you.”
“Eh?” She was startled. The big mouth trembled. “You can’t charge
me----”
“I’ll charge you with murder, and I’ll dig up the garden of every
house you’ve occupied in the past six years to find evidence.”
Mrs. Inglethorne’s many-chinned jaw dropped; her eyes stared wildly,
and in their depths Coldwell read the very terror of death.
“I’ve done nothing--like that!” She almost screamed.
“You were Martha’s servant, weren’t you?”
She nodded dumbly, and then, throwing herself on the couch, she