Delphi collected works o.., p.451
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 451
We walked over to the typewriter which stood on the small table to the right of Zweitt’s desk.
“This is a Remington No. 10,” he said. “It’s the typewriter which is used in most business houses, and there must be tens of thousands of them in existence.”
He placed a piece of paper in the machine and commenced to type.
“It’s fairly easy to tell the age of a typewriter by the condition of the type,” continued Jevons. “This machine now—” he broke off suddenly.
“Good God, Mr. Relph! Come here? Look at this!”
I looked over his shoulder. Jevons had been tapping out a copy of the mysterious note, and the copy in the machine bore exactly the same characteristic faults in the type as the original. The letter to Jevons had been written on the Remington machine before us!
Jevons examined the copy again carefully.
“There’s no possible mistake, Mr. Relph,” he said. “That letter was written on this machine.”
“Then it must have been written last night after I had gone,” I said. “I was the last person on the premises — the doorkeeper waited to see me off. Some one came back here last night and typed that letter, and they were either concealed in the building or they were supplied with keys. Brandon’s door was locked, and concealment in this office is impossible.”
Jevons walked to the door and examined the Yale lock.
“This door has been opened, and with a ‘spider,’” he said. “A ‘spider,’ Mr. Relph,” he explained, “is an instrument used by crooks to open Yale locks. If you will examine this lock carefully you will see the faint scratches on the outside.”
Jevons sat down in Zweitt’s chair.
“Who could have written that letter?” he said.
It had occurred to me that the letter might have been written by Brandon, but Jevons’ statement that the office door had been opened with a ‘spider’ dispelled this theory. Brandon could easily let himself into the building at any time he liked, and therefore it was unnecessary that he should force an entrance.
Jevons looked at the typewriter in perplexity.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that we shall never get to the end of the business. No sooner do I make up my mind to work along one line than something turns up to upset my theories!”
He put on his hat and went off, looking thoroughly puzzled.
AFTER Jevons had gone I went upstairs and inspected the other offices in the building.
It was just after seven o’clock and the place was empty, the cleaners having finished their work. Then I went down to the front entrance. The doorkeeper was just putting on his hat and coat.
“I shall be staying late to-night, Stevens,” I said. “I’ve got some work to finish. I suppose I shall be able to get out all right.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” he answered. “The door is a self-locking one. Just give it a good pull, and it will be all right.”
I said “good-night” to him and went upstairs. In a few minutes I heard the door bang after him. I was alone in the building. I had brought a packet of sandwiches and a flask with me, and I made a meal where I sat.
It was midnight before I moved from the office, when I removed Jaffray’s automatic pistol from my hip pocket and slipped it in my right-hand coat pocket. Then I took my electric torch and moved over to the door. Very carefully I turned the door-handle, and pulled back the latch regulator, and commenced to open the door, inch by inch.
Outside the passage was in absolute darkness, except at the far end, where a small window let in a patch of silver moonlight, and there was not a sound to be heard. I slipped quietly into the passage, closing the door behind me, and, pulling it gently until I heard the lock click. I could reopen it if necessary with my key.
Then I tiptoed gently along to the head of the stairs and looked over the banister rail. There was a black void beneath me, but I knew that anyone attempting to reach the vault door down in the basement must pass immediately beneath where I stood at the head of the stairs. Not a sound came from below. After waiting for about fifteen minutes and hearing nothing I quietly descended the stairs, and, pushing open the door which led to the basement, made my way down to the vault door. I switched on my electric torch and examined the paste seals. They were still intact.
Suddenly I heard a slight noise — a peculiar scraping sound, which seemed to come from somewhere in the upper regions of the building. I switched off my torch and ascended once more to the first floor, and stood there listening. Perhaps the noise had only existed in my imagination, or, possibly, had been caused by a mouse or rat.
Just as I had come to this decision I heard it again — a weird sort of shuffling sound. There was no doubt that it came from somewhere above my head. I flattened myself against the left-hand wall of the corridor where the stairs led to the next floor. I reached the end of the corridor, and, edging past the splash of moonlight which came through the window, silently proceeded to mount the staircase to the second floor. As I neared the top of the stairs I heard the shuffling again, but this time it was much nearer. I flattened myself against the wainscoting by the side of the staircase and, with my pistol ready, waited. Nearer and nearer came the sound. I could not see a hand’s breadth in front of me, but, it seemed that someone was approaching the top of the stairs and dragging a heavy weight along the ground behind him.
As the sound approached I retreated down the stairs, timing my silent steps as nearly as possible with those of the man above me. It was my intention to get to the bottom of the stairs where they curved round by the window and, remaining in the shadow of the curve, to let the mysterious unknown pass me and step into the moonlight with his burden.
After what seemed an eternity I reached the curve at the bottom of the stairs and flattened myself against the wall. Evidently the unknown had no notion of my presence, for he approached casually. I could hear him wheezing, whilst every step he took was accompanied by the bump of his burden falling from stair to stair. He came level with me — then passed me, so closely that I could have touched him with my hand. Then, as he moved into the splash of moonlight, I saw a short, stooping figure dragging a heavily laden sack behind him. As the moonlight fell upon his face I gave an involuntary start. It was the Chinaman!
CHAPTER IX
FOR A MOMENT I was tempted to spring out upon him, but this idea I dismissed as impracticable. It would be far better to see where he was going with his mysterious burden. He had by this time proceeded about ten yards down the corridor. I ascended a few steps and, gripping the banister rail, I lowered myself over the stairs and descended, hand over hand, until my feet touched the floor. In this way I missed the patch of moonlight at the bottom of the stairs, and found myself just behind the Chinaman once more.
Where was he going with his burden? He was so far advanced down the corridor that he must be going either to his own office, the front door, or down to the vault via the basement. I calculated that we were now about ten yards from the door of Brandon’s office, and fifteen yards from the top of the stairs leading to the front entrance.
Suddenly there was silence — the Chinaman was not moving. Had he heard me? I crouched against the wall, every nerve strained to the uttermost in preparation for his spring. Nothing happened!
I waited for what seemed an interminable time, but what was in reality about five minutes. Still there was no movement. I crept noiselessly along the passage till I had reached the head of the stairs, then, with my pistol held ready, I flashed my electric torch down the corridor. It was empty! The Chinaman and the sack had disappeared!
I stood in amazement. Then I walked, down the corridor to the spot where I had last seen him. It was about twelve yards from the office door. How could he have disappeared — and where? On one side was a blank wall and on the other there was about fifteen feet of panelling leading along by the side of the stairs.
There could be one explanation only. There must be some secret way leading out of the passage.
I walked slowly down the corridor, examining the wall and the stair siding as well as I could, but I could find nothing out of the ordinary. I retraced my steps, and was considering whether I should let myself into the office, when I heard a slight sound beneath me. It seemed like the clang of metal. Suddenly it struck me that someone was opening the vault door. Could it be the Chinaman? How had he got downstairs without passing me at the stair top?
Very faintly I heard the sound again. I tiptoed quietly to the top of the stairs and looked over. All was quiet below. With my heart pumping with excitement I made my way down the stairs to the ground floor, where a quick examination of the front door showed me that the lock was intact. Then I noiselessly descended to the vault door. Switching on the torch I examined the paste seals. They were broken! I gently tried the lock on the door and gave the padlock which secured the locking-bar a gentle pull. It came off easily, The vault door was unlocked!
I sat down against the wall and considered the situation, my ears straining for the slightest sound. Was it the Chinaman who, by some secret way, had got down to the vault without passing me in the passage above? Rising to my feet. I opened the vault door inch by inch. There was only darkness in front of me. I slipped my torch into my pocket, and with the automatic pistol in my hand began to descend the stone steps which led down into the vault. I descended carefully, testing each step with my foot, and at the thirtieth step I felt the stone floor solid beneath my feet. I could not see a hand’s breadth in front of me, but I was afraid to switch on my torch. I listened intently, but I could hear nothing. Where had the mysterious visitor gone?
I waited in the darkness for several minutes. The silence of the place was uncanny. I wondered if the vault were one large room, or if it consisted of several rooms joined by passages in the usual manner of wine vaults. After some hesitation, I decided to inspect the place, and with my pistol held ready I switched on the torch and flashed it about me.
The vault was entirely built up of stone and was very high. Barrels and packing cases were piled against the walls, whilst rows of shelves, on which reposed bottles of wine, divided into compartments, were affixed to the walls above the packing cases. After a few minutes, when my eyes became accustomed to the place, I made out two doorways in the centre of the walls before and behind me. As far as I could judge, one led off under Brennan’s Buildings and the other in the direction of King William Street, parallel with the lane in which the main entrance stood.
I walked through the opening in front of me, and found myself in another vault, slightly smaller than the one which I had just quitted. This vault was fitted up in exactly the same way as the previous one, and I observed another opening on my right. I went through this and found myself in a third vault.
This was much smaller than the other two, and the only exit was the door through which I had just entered. There were no wine bins or shelves, but a collection of apparently empty bottles of every shape and size stood about the floor I looked about the place, but there was no sign of anyone having been in this part of the vaults. The floor was dusty, and a quick examination of the two rooms showed me that my own footmarks were the only new ones.
I knew, however, that someone had entered the vault, and it seemed certain, therefore, that they must have taken the opposite direction, and gone through the other door in the main vault.
I switched off the torch and listened. There was still no sound to be heard. An extraordinary musty smell assailed my nostrils, and somewhere I could hear water dripping. Very slowly I made my way back to the main vault, and felt my way along the wall until I reached the other entrance. I passed through. Opposite me I could just make out another opening leading into a further vault, for somewhere in this further vault a dim light was showing faintly. Was the mysterious visitor awaiting me?
I crept round the vault until I came to the opening. The light flickered regularly, and I came to the conclusion that somewhere in the place a gas jet was burning. I slipped back the safety catch of my automatic, and, holding it in readiness to shoot, I stepped into the room.
I found myself in what was practically a replica of the other vaults, except there was no door on the further side. In the right-hand corner furthest from me a gas-jet burned, and near it I could discern an ordinary cupboard door. A glance round the place assured me that there was no possible hiding-place in the vault except this cupboard. Unless my quarry had disappeared into thin air he must be hiding there! Creeping over to the door, I seized the handle and flung the door open. It was a small cupboard lined with shelves filled with wine bottles — and it was empty.
I drew back in amazement. I had searched every inch of the vaults and had found nothing. I put my hand to my forehead, and found it damp with perspiration. What could be the explanation of this new mystery. Could it be .... an idea suddenly came to me. I hurried back to the main vault, and ran quickly up the stone steps to the basement door.
It was locked. I was a prisoner in the vault!
CHAPTER X
THE UNKNOWN HAD scored again. Sitting on the top step, I cursed myself for a fool. The explanation was simple. The paste seals on the lock and padlock had been broken, and the locks left open for me to enter. Then the doors had been quietly locked behind me. I looked at my watch, and saw that it was nearly half-past nine.
My position was serious. Ever since I had been employed at Brandon’s offices I had never known the vault door to be opened. The basement was not used except for the purpose of gaining admittance to the vaults, and unless by some stroke of luck Brandon, or someone else, came to the vault door there, was little chance of my making myself heard.
At least, I thought cynically, here was a good opportunity to examine the vaults thoroughly. So, descending the stone steps once more, I flashed my torch over the walls and ceilings of the different vaults. Apparently the main vault had been used for storing cases of wines and spirits, and the smaller vaults for empty bottles.
I turned my attention to the vault on the right, where the gas-burner was alight. This was littered with packing cases and old furniture, which seemed, judging by the thick layer of dust, to have been untouched for months. Lastly, I examined the cupboard. It was about four feet square, and shelved on three sides. The shelves were filled with bottles. Standing with my back to the door I picked up one of the bottles at random from the shelf opposite.
It was clean, and free from dust, while a glance at the bottles on the shelves to the left and right showed that they were dirty, and covered with dust.
I moved several bottles from the shelf in front of me, placing them on the floor beside me. After I had moved between twenty and thirty bottles, and was about to start on the third row, I gave an involuntary exclamation.
The bottles were stuck to the shelf!
I wondered what could be behind these bottles, which were so obviously used to conceal something. Then an idea struck me. I took the front edge of the shelf and pulled it towards me. The complete section of the shelf came out in my hands! I flashed my electric torch on the wall behind. Between the two shelves, and so arranged that the dummy bottles covered it, was a sliding panel. I pushed it to the right, and it moved easily. Flashing my torch through the aperture. I could see a long stone passage in front of me. With a little difficulty I climbed through the sliding panel and dropped into the passage.
It was damp and dark, and a trickle of water ran down the right-hand wall and splashed dolefully on the stone floor. Lighting my way and advancing step by step, I progressed along the passage. After a dozen yards or so it began to widen slightly, and then my light flashed on a dead wall which blocked the end of the passage. I flashed my torch all over the wall, but I could see no exit.
As I was about to turn back I noticed a glimmer of light on the right-hand side of the wall, about five feet from the ground. I switched off the torch. The light was coming through a crevice in the wall. I felt round the crack with my fingers, and discovered that one or two bricks were loose. Perhaps, after all, there was a way out.
I pulled my pistol out, and slipping out the cartridge clip I removed the ammunition, and using the clip as a wedge succeeded in forcing one of the bricks out of place. In doing this I had widened the original crack to such an extent that, by placing my eye to the wall, I could see the wooden floor and a stool in the room beyond.
Placing my fingers over the bulb of my torch I examined the bricks around the spot through which I had looked. They were all loose bricks, and could evidently be removed at will. I seized one of these loose bricks, and was working it out of place, when I heard a slight noise behind me. I spun round, but before I could move or cry out iron fingers gripped my throat, something sweet and sticky was pressed over my mouth, and I knew no more.
MY first impression on regaining consciousness was that there was a mystic light just in front of my nose which persisted in bobbing about like a will-o’-the-wisp. My head ached terribly and I felt horribly sick. Presently the will-o’-the-wisp light resolved itself into a candle which was stuck on a packing case a few yards in front of the spot where I lay, and seated on another case near by sat a man in tortoiseshell glasses, who smoked a cigarette through a long holder, and regarded me quizzically. He rose to his feet slowly and stretched.
“Feeling better?” he asked. “Nasty stuff — chloroform.” He brushed a speck from his immaculate blue suit. “Always has such beastly after-effects.”
“Look here,” I said, painfully conscious that my voice sounded like nothing on earth, “who the devil are you?”
He grinned cheerfully. “That doesn’t really matter,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking of asking you the same question, but I guess you are the more entitled to have your curiosity satisfied first. So I suggest that you put your head back on that roll of stuff which I collected with such care for your comfort, and listen to me.”
