XVII

Demoniacal, terrifying, she towered above the frightened woman, and Greta cowered and held up her hand as though to ward off a blow.

“Get on the telephone, quick, and tell him he needn’t come. Invent any excuse you like⁠—hurry!”

In a trembling voice Greta called the number.

“He’s gone,” she said, and looked up at her mistress.

“All right, hang up, you fool!” Anita was breathing quickly. New lines showed in her face; she looked like an old woman.

“Send somebody down to the door and tell him he needn’t come.”

“But, Anita,” wailed the other, “I can’t do that. I must see him, Nita. What a stupid thing you are! What difference does it make? If you don’t like him you needn’t show yourself. And if I send down a message like that he’ll be awfully suspicious. You remember how the police came just because my wretched doctor told somebody I had a gunshot wound in the leg?”

There was reason and intelligence in this, and though the woman was quivering between fear and fury, she had no course but to consent, and when, ten minutes later, the doctor’s foot sounded on the stairs outside, Anita Bellini disappeared into the bedroom, but did not go beyond earshot.

He was an elderly man, rather talkative and fussy, short and stout, with a cherubic face, and short, white side-whiskers.

“Bless my soul, I remember you now!” he said. He was one of the loud and jovial race of doctors that is fast dying out. “I remember you very well. You used to be a friend of the Dawlishes, didn’t you? Poor old Donald! What a good sort! Now, let me look at this leg of yours.”

He examined the wound, which was little more than a scar, and, to Greta’s dismay, pronounced her fit to travel.

“You’ll have to take care of yourself for a week or two,” he said conventionally, and returned to the topic his examination had interrupted. “Yes, I was with old Donald two days before he died, from morning till night, hoping against hope that I could do something for him. For twenty-four hours I never stirred from his side. Poor old Donald! He died six hours after I left him, with my dear friend, Sir Paul Grayley, one of the best doctors that ever lived.”

Old Mr. Wesley was blessed with this disposition, that all the people he knew were the best people that ever lived, and all who were bereft of his acquaintance came under the generic heading of “poor souls.”

“Very bad business about his boy, poor soul!” He shook his hoary head. “Terribly bad business. I didn’t know Peter personally⁠—never met him. But when I heard of this fearful thing he’d done, I said to myself, ‘My boy, if the news has to be broken to Donald, you’re the man to do it.’ ”

He was very talkative, very delightful, very human, but Greta was annoyed with him and gave him little encouragement to stay. As for the woman standing in the darkness of the bedroom, had her wishes materialized, old Mr. Wesley would have been swept from the face of the earth.

Presently he was gone, and she came out from her listening post.

“Apparently you can move without dying,” she said sarcastically.

“Apparently I can, if I want to move.” Greta’s voice was husky. She was back in her last trench, conscious of a great shortage of ammunition. “And I don’t want to move, and that’s flat! I can’t understand why you hate that dear old man. I admit he’s fearfully chatty, but that’s no reason why you should throw a fit at the mention of his name.”

“When I want your opinion about my peculiarities I will ask you for them,” bullied Anita, and it was a wrong move, as she realized.

Mrs. Gurden shrugged her shoulders rapidly.

“If that’s the tone you’re going to adopt,” she said, with an heroic assumption of boldness, “the sooner we part the better, Anita. You’ve stopped the paper, but I think I’m entitled to some money instead of notice; and if it comes to that, I’ve had no salary for a month. And as to going down to your beastly old Towers, I simply won’t, so there!”

The Princess forced a smile.

“My dear Greta, you’re getting theatrical. But I realize you’re not quite yourself. Now, don’t be a little fool, come and rest with me for a week or two. There are one or two big schemes I want to talk over with you, and afterwards we’ll pack up and go to Capri or Monte Carlo or somewhere a little more cheerful than Wimbledon.”

“I won’t!”

It required a tremendous amount of courage to utter those two words of defiance, but it was zero hour to Greta Gurden, and for the moment she had all the ferocity of a mad sheep.

“I simply won’t! If I’ve got to earn my own living I’ll earn it. I can get a job on Fleet Fashions⁠—I was offered one last week. I’m tired of your domination and your bullying, and⁠—well, I simply won’t go to Wimbledon, and that’s a fact!”

Here was a resistance which Anita Bellini had never anticipated. There was not the stuff of sweet reasonableness in her. She had made her way in the world by the force of her character, and her simulations had been confined to hiding her too frequent fits of anger. It was not in her to persuade⁠—she must command or do nothing.

“You’re going to make me look foolish. I’ve promised⁠—”

“I don’t care what I make you look.” Greta’s head was quivering with determination. “It’s not my fault. And whom have you promised?” Without waiting for a reply: “You know how I loath that house at Wimbledon and those awfully creepy Japanese men of yours.”

“Javanese. They’re quite nice people. If you refer to your encyclopaedia you will discover they are inoffensive, peace-loving, and domestic.”

But sarcasm was wasted on Greta.

“That may be or may not be,” she said. “All I know is that I’m not coming with you.”

“Stay and be⁠—stay till tomorrow!” snapped the elder woman. “I shan’t waste my time or go down on my hands and knees to you. You owe me a lot, Greta⁠—”

“You owe me a month’s salary,” said the spirited Greta, with admirable courage, “and three months’ notice.”

Her hands trembling with rage, Anita tore open her bag and flung a packet of one-pound notes on the table. Without another word she strode out of the room and shut the door so violently that the whole house shook.

Greta Gurden sat bolt upright, shivering with triumph, yet with a sinking sense of terror at what the morrow would bring forth. She had charred her boats, but she had not burnt them. Her shaking hand grabbed the telephone.

“Put me on to Scotland Yard,” she said.

She heard the weary sigh of the operator.

“Is Scotland Yard blessed with a number?” she asked.

Greta hung up the phone and looked round in search of the directory. But apparently Scotland Yard had no number, nor did there seem to be such a place on the face of the earth. She was to learn later that the official designation was New Scotland Yard, but she did not dream of looking under the N’s. And then she remembered one Leslie Maughan, and the M’s yielded a good result. She waited for a while after she had given the number, and then:

“Yes. I want to speak to you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Gurden.”

Greta started.

“How did you know?”

She heard a laugh.

“I always remember voices, especially nice voices like yours,” said the mendacious young lady from Scotland Yard.

“I want to see you very much⁠—very badly, I mean⁠—tremendously.”

“In fact, you want to see me,” said Leslie. “I’ll come along.”

It required some persuasion to induce Lucretia to wait for the arrival of Mr. Coldwell.

“Very well, then,” said Leslie patiently, “wait in the street. You’ll catch your death of cold, but I don’t suppose that will worry you very much. You might even hobnob with a policeman. I trust you.”

“I should jolly well say you did!” said the indignant Lucretia.

She compromised by sitting on the baggage in the passage, the door being propped open with a weight. She found it a little more draughty than the street.

Greta’s boats seemed a little more burnt than she could have desired when she surveyed the desolation just before Leslie’s arrival. She had little stamina for quarrelling, and already her mind was a confusion of fear and penitence when Mrs. Hobbs, who had returned for her evening duties, showed the girl into the dining-room.

“It’s awfully good of you to come.” Greta was her conventional self, grabbed the girl’s hand in both of hers, used that old and artless trick of looking up pleadingly into her visitor’s face. “I’m so worried, my dear. The truth is, I’ve quarrelled with Anita. Definitely and finally,” she said, recovering a little of her lost ground. “The paper is dead, as you’ve probably heard⁠—you know everything at Scotland Yard. That means I’m out of a job, though I can get one tomorrow by asking. Anita has behaved abominably. I should never have dreamt, after all I’ve been to her, the thought and care and experience I have devoted to her, as it were⁠—do take your hat and coat off. Shall I ask the maid to make you a cup of tea?”

Leslie, secretly amused, shook her head. She guessed that the woman had changed her mind since she first sent for her. It was hardly likely that she would trouble to telephone about one of those quarrels which, if her information was accurate, were not an infrequent occurrence between Greta Gurden and the Princess.

“Of course, I’ve nothing to tell you that would harm Anita.” Mrs. Gurden planted one foot firmly on shore, and prepared, figuratively, to splash the waves of her venom with the other. “But she’s so peculiar⁠—and such a temper! I shouldn’t be surprised if she goes off in a fit of apoplexy one of these days.”

“What is her trouble now?”

Greta could tell her this much, she decided, without disloyalty to her late employer. The very thought that she was “late” filled her with dismay.

“She wanted me to go to Wimbledon to stay there for a month, and I hate the place⁠—I simply loath it! I’m rather temperamental; I suppose all artists are⁠—I mean, artists and literary people. And May Towers gives me the horrors. And, of course, she was terribly rude to me, in spite of the fact that I am far from well and my leg aches excruciatingly. Anita is the most unreasonable person. You’ve no idea, Miss Maughan. Of course, we quarrelled, and I simply told her that I’d have no more to do with her. And then she made a fearful scene because I asked old Dr. Wesley to come up and see me and tell me whether I was fit to be moved. She practically cursed me for calling him. Really, I thought she was going mad. And he’s such a dear old soul⁠—awfully talkative, of course, but a perfect gentleman, and a kind man. Why, do you know, he was with Mr. Dawlish for the last twenty-four hours of his life⁠—never left his side, my dear, hoping he’d regain consciousness⁠—so kind!”

Leslie was sitting at the other side of the table, her hands folded patiently, waiting for the real story to come. Now she leaned forward, her eyes upon the woman’s face.

“Dr. Wesley? Was he the Dawlishes’ doctor?”

“A very charming old man, but awfully fond of Mr. Dawlish. Except for six hours just before his death, he was with old Mr. Dawlish for a whole day and a night⁠—never left his side.”

Leslie hardly heard the next five minutes’ complaint, but when she came to bring her understanding to bear upon her hostess, Greta was not much nearer to the reason for her telephone message.

“… if anything comes out I can always say, and Anita must bear me out, that I never knew this wretched man was a woman. The first thing I saw was Anita and this man struggling, and I wanted to send for the police. And then those wretched men came in and tried to drag the pistol out of Druze’s hand⁠—her hand, I mean, Druze’s hand. And there was I, lying on a sofa⁠—fainted, my dear, and with simply not a notion in the world that I was wounded⁠—it may sound strange to you, but it is true. When I woke up, Anita was going on like somebody who had lost her head. It was simply ghastly.”

“Did you see Druze again?”

Greta shook her head.

“No⁠—the language she used before the shooting started!” Greta shuddered. “I simply couldn’t repeat half the words she employed. Of course, Anita sent me out of the room; said she didn’t know I was there; but just as I started to go out, my dear⁠—bang!” Mrs. Gurden grew dramatic and illustrative. “Bang! And then everything went dark. You know how it does, my dear.”

“I can’t understand quite,” said Leslie. “A few hours after the shooting I found you at Lady Raytham’s.”

“She sent me⁠—Anita,” Mrs. Gurden broke in. “ ‘Go to Jane, but tell her nothing,’ said Anita. ‘Find out all that you can about Druze⁠—how they parted, if she threatened her.’ Those were her words. You know Anita, she’s⁠—what is the word?⁠—imperious! I didn’t know whether I was on my head or my heels⁠—like that Mr. What’s-his-name who’s written a story about women. I simply had to. And not an idea in my head that a beastly bullet had gone into my leg. The doctor said that if I hadn’t run about the wound would have healed right away. It was only when I got home⁠—my dear, I nearly died.” She paused to take breath. “I suppose she’ll come tomorrow and ask me to go back. I’m such a forgiving nature⁠—”

“If there is anything in life that you value, you will stay here, Mrs. Gurden,” said Leslie quietly. “I don’t want to frighten you, but I think it is my duty to warn you that the Princess Bellini’s course is nearly run. As to Druze⁠—”

She had never thought that Druze was murdered; always she had at the back of her mind the possibility of a struggle in which the shots were accidentally fired. There was a good and sufficient reason why Anita Bellini should not shoot the mock butler.

When she reached her flat, the front door was closed. She opened it and turned on the passage light. Lucretia and the grips were gone, she saw with satisfaction. In the letter-box was a blue-lettered cablegram, and she snatched it out and opened it. This was a reply to one she had sent on her way back from lunch, and she read the message and could have sung in her joy.

She ran up the stairs, her mind divided between this blessed message and her interview with Greta Gurden. Greta was in revolt; that much was clear. But how far would her rage and venom carry her towards a complete betrayal of her employer? As she passed the hall window she noticed that the new safety-catch was in place. Really it was ridiculous to leave the flat at all, she thought. After that one abortive attempt it was not likely that a second would be made.

She almost regretted now that she had agreed to Mr. Coldwell’s plan. Throwing open the door of her sitting-room, she put out her hand and turned the light switch. But the room remained in darkness. Had they replaced the fuses? she wondered, and walked into the room.

There was no sound, no warning. A great hand suddenly gripped her throat, another covered her mouth. She felt the pressure of a knee in her back, and struggled desperately but unavailingly.

“You scream⁠—you killed!” hissed a voice in her ear, and, summoning all her strength, she tried to nod in agreement with the unspoken demand of her captor.

The door closed softly behind her. There were two men. She felt her ankles gripped and lifted, and she was carried into the bedroom and laid on the bed.

“You scream⁠—you killed!” said the voice again.

The grip about her throat relaxed, but the evil-smelling hand was still on her face.

“I won’t scream,” she managed to mumble, and the stifling palm was removed.

“You scream, I cut your t’roat. You not scream, I not cut you t’roat⁠—not hurt.”

“I shan’t scream,” she said in a low voice. “May I get up, please?”

There was a whispered consultation in a language which held some gutturals, and then the man who had first spoken said:

“You sit on a chair, keep very quiet, long time, long time.”

He gripped her by the arm and assisted her back to the dining-room, guiding her to a chair, though there was enough light from a street lamp for her to pick her way.

There were two men⁠—little men; their heads were not much above her shoulder. Broad, squat, and, as she had reason to know, immensely strong. She could not see their faces; by accident or arrangement their backs were to the window. He who was evidently chief of the two said something in an unknown language, and his companion withdrew to the landing, and the hall and landing lights went out. Presently he came back, and, to her surprise, he was joined by a third. Again there was a whispered consultation, and the third man disappeared, the other two squatting on the carpet before her, impassive, silent, watching, as she guessed, with eyes that did not leave her for a second. A quarter of an hour they sat thus, and then:

“I speak English liddle bit. I hear English well,” said the man. “I tell you trut’. Last night Nigara cut your t’roat. This night he not hurt.” He added a phrase she could not understand.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“Presently, by-and-by,” said the little man, after he had repeated her words slowly and had grasped their meaning, “you and me walk into carriage. While you walk you see peoples. If you speak to peoples I cut you t’roat.”

Very definite, but the repetition of the phrase amused her mildly.

“You’re rather monotonous, aren’t you?” she asked. “And after I get into the carriage, what happens?”

There was a pause while he took this in.

“By-and-by you see,” he said.

The third man came back now, and she gathered that he was in reality the leading member of the gang, for on his word the two others vanished through the door and he took their place.

“You won’t be hurt unless you give us trouble,” he said. To her surprise he spoke in perfect English. “My patron requires you.”

“Who is your patron?”

It gave her a sense of comfort to know that this queer little shape could understand all she said and could converse intelligently. It made him less of a strange and menacing animal, and removed some of the terror from the situation. And it delayed the moment when she would find her cumbersome garter a vital safeguard.

“I cannot answer your questions, miss,” he replied. “But you will not be hurt. Last night you would have been killed⁠—I myself would have killed you⁠—but that is not the order today. If you are sensible and quiet, nothing will happen.”

He stood up and looked out of the window; neither the shades nor the curtains had been drawn, and he could see to the opposite side of the road.

“I must tell you what will occur,” he said. He had a trick of pedantry which might have amused her at any other time. “This house is being watched by the police. After a while they will grow tired and careless, and then my friend will signal to me that they have walked away. When that happens we will go.”

She could not see him; she could only guess that his “friend” was one of the two. She had noticed that all three were dressed in correct European garb, and the incongruity of their overcoats and derby hats added a touch of the bizarre.

“Will you therefore sit nearer to the window, at your writing place? If the telephone rings you will not answer.”

So they sat, he on one side of the table and she on the other, his eyes roving to the sidewalk and from the sidewalk to his prisoner. She saw the limousines stream past on their way to the theatres, and wondered if, on any stage in London, there would be enacted a drama quite as improbable as this in which she played a leading part.

After a long interval of silence:

“I suppose you realize that, when I do not arrive at Mr. Coldwell’s house, he will either telephone or come back for me?”

He nodded.

“We have already made provision,” he said simply. “We have sent him a telegram in your name, saying that you have been called away to⁠—” He hesitated. “I cannot remember the town; it is in the West and is on the sea.”

“Plymouth?” she asked quickly.

“Plymouth,” he nodded. “The telegram also told him your hotel. Plymouth is very far, and by the time he discovers you have not arrived”⁠—a pause⁠—“by that time you will not be here.”

“Where shall I be?” she asked.

“You will be in the harem of Diga Nagara, the great prince who is dead yet is alive.”

Leslie Maughan did not swoon. She stared across the table at the little man. He was nodding solemnly.

“Diga Nagara, the great prince⁠—who was dead and is alive!”