The Black Bag by Louis Joseph Vance (snow like ashes txt) 📕

by the result of his impulsive

audacity, thunderstruck by a lightning-like foreglimpse of its possible

consequences. Of what colossal imprudence had he not been guilty?

 

“The devil!” he whispered. “What an ass, what an utter ass I am!”

 

Behind him the knob was rattled urgently, to an accompaniment of feet

shuffling on the stone; and immediately—if he were to make a logical

deduction from the rasping and scraping sound within the door-casing—the

bell-pull was violently agitated, without, however, educing any response

from the bell itself, wherever that might be situate. After which, as if in

despair, the outsider again rattled and jerked the knob.

 

Be his status what it might, whether servant of the household, its

caretaker, or a night watchman, the man was palpably determined both to get

himself in and Kirkwood out, and yet (curious to consider) determined to

gain his end without attracting undue attention. Kirkwood had expected to

hear the knocker’s thunder, as soon as the bell failed to give tongue; but

it did not sound although there was a knocker,—Kirkwood himself had

remarked that antiquated and rusty bit of ironmongery affixed to the middle

panel of the door. And it made him feel sure that something surreptitious

and lawless was in process within those walls, that the confederate

without, having failed to prevent a stranger from entering, left unemployed

a means so certain-sure to rouse the occupants.

 

But his inferential analysis of this phase of the proceedings was summarily

abrupted by that identical alarm. In a trice the house was filled with

flying echoes, wakened to sonorous riot by the crash and clamor of the

knocker; and Kirkwood stood fully two yards away, his heart hammering

wildly, his nerves a-jingle, much as if the resounding blows had landed

upon his own person rather than on stout oaken planking.

 

Ere he had time to wonder, the racket ceased, and from the street filtered

voices in altercation. Listening, Kirkwood’s pulses quickened, and he

laughed uncertainly for pure relief, retreating to the door and putting an

ear to a crack.

 

The accents of one speaker were new in his hearing, stern, crisp, quick

with the spirit of authority which animates that most austere and dignified

limb of the law to be encountered the world over, a London bobby.

 

“Now then, my man, what do you want there? Come now, speak up, and step out

into the light, where I can see you.”

 

The response came in the sniffling snarl of the London ne’er-do-well, the

unemployable rogue whose chiefest occupation seems to be to march in the

ranks of The Unemployed on the occasion of its annual demonstrations.

 

“Le’ me alone, carntcher? Ah’m doin’ no ‘arm, officer,—”

 

“Didn’t you hear me? Step out here. Ah, that’s better…. No harm, eh?

Perhaps you’ll explain how there’s no harm breakin’ into unoccupied

‘ouses?”

 

“Gorblimy, ‘ow was I to know? ‘Ere’s a toff ‘ands me sixpence fer hopenin’

‘is cab door to-dye, an’, sezee, ‘My man,’ ‘e sez, ‘yer’ve got a ‘onest

fyce. W’y don’cher work?’ sezee. ”Ow can I?’ sez I. ”Ere’m I hout of

a job these six months, lookin’ fer work every dye an’ carn’t find it.’

Sezee, ‘Come an’ see me this hevenin’ at me home, Noine, Frognall Stryte,’

‘e sez, an’—”

 

“That’ll do for now. You borrow a pencil and paper and write it down and

I’ll read it when I’ve got more time; I never heard the like of it. This

‘ouse hasn’t been lived in these two years. Move on, and don’t let me find

you round ‘ere again. March, I say!”

 

There was more of it—more whining explanations artfully tinctured with

abuse, more terse commands to depart, the whole concluding with scraping

footsteps, diminuendo, and another perfunctory, rattle of the knob as the

bobby, having shoo’d the putative evil-doer off, assured himself that

no damage had actually been done. Then he, too, departed, satisfied and

self-righteous, leaving a badly frightened but very grateful amateur

criminal to pursue his self-appointed career of crime.

 

He had no choice other than to continue; in point of fact, it had been

insanity just then to back out, and run the risk of apprehension at the

hands of that ubiquitous bobby, who (for all he knew) might be lurking not

a dozen yards distant, watchful for just such a sequel. Still, Kirkwood

hesitated with the best of excuses. Reassuring as he had found the

sentinel’s extemporized yarn,—proof positive that the fellow had had no

more right to prohibit a trespass than Kirkwood to commit one,—at the

same time he found himself pardonably a prey to emotions of the utmost

consternation and alarm. If he feared to leave the house he had no warrant

whatever to assume that he would be permitted to remain many minutes

unharmed within its walls of mystery.

 

The silence of it discomfited him beyond measure; it was, in a word,

uncanny.

 

Before him, as he lingered at the door, vaguely disclosed by a wan

illumination penetrating a dusty and begrimed fanlight, a broad hall

stretched indefinitely towards the rear of the building, losing itself in

blackness beyond the foot of a flight of stairs. Save for a few articles of

furniture,—a hall table, an umbrella-stand, a tall dumb clock flanked by

high-backed chairs,—it was empty. Other than Kirkwood’s own restrained

respiration not a sound throughout the house advertised its inhabitation;

not a board creaked beneath the pressure of a foot, not a mouse rustled in

the wainscoting or beneath the floors, not a breath of air stirred sighing

in the stillness.

 

And yet, a tremendous racket had been raised at the front door, within the

sixty seconds past! And yet, within twenty minutes two persons, at

least, had preceded Kirkwood into the building! Had they not heard? The

speculation seemed ridiculous. Or had they heard and, alarmed, been too

effectually hobbled by the coils of their nefarious designs to dare reveal

themselves, to investigate the cause of that thunderous summons? Or were

they, perhaps, aware of Kirkwood’s entrance, and lying perdui, in some

dark corner, to ambush him as he passed?

 

True, that were hardly like the girl. True, on the other hand, it

were possible that she had stolen away while Kirkwood was hanging in

irresolution by the passage to Quadrant Mews. Again, the space of time

between Kirkwood’s dismissal and his return had been exceedingly brief;

whatever her errand, she could hardly have fulfilled it and escaped. At

that moment she might be in the power and at the mercy of him who had

followed her; providing he were not friendly. And in that case, what

torment and what peril might not be hers?

 

Spurred by solicitude, the young man put personal apprehensions in his

pocket and forgot them, cautiously picking his way through the gloom to the

foot of the stairs. There, by the newel-post, he paused. Darkness walled

him about. Overhead the steps vanished in a well of blackness; he could

not even see the ceiling; his eyes ached with futile effort to fathom the

unknown; his ears rang with unrewarded strain of listening. The silence

hung inviolate, profound.

 

Slowly he began to ascend, a hand following the balusters, the other with

his cane exploring the obscurity before him. On the steps, a carpet, thick

and heavy, muffled his footfalls. He moved noiselessly. Towards the top

the staircase curved, and presently a foot that groped for a higher level

failed to find it. Again he halted, acutely distrustful.

 

Nothing happened.

 

He went on, guided by the balustrade, passing three doors, all open,

through which the undefined proportions of a drawing-room and boudoir were

barely suggested in a ghostly dusk. By each he paused, listening, hearing

nothing.

 

His foot struck with a deadened thud against the bottom step of the

second flight, and his pulses fluttered wildly for a moment. Two

minutes—three—he waited in suspense. From above came no sound. He went

on, as before, save that twice a step yielded, complaining, to his weight.

Toward the top the close air, like the darkness, seemed to weigh more

heavily upon his consciousness; little drops of perspiration started out on

his forehead, his scalp tingled, his mouth was hot and dry, he felt as if

stifled.

 

Again the raised foot found no level higher than its fellows. He stopped

and held his breath, oppressed by a conviction that some one was near him.

Confirmation of this came startlingly—an eerie whisper in the night, so

close to him that he fancied he could feel the disturbed air fanning his

face.

 

“Is it you, Eccles?”

 

He had no answer ready. The voice was masculine, if he analyzed it

correctly. Dumb and stupid he stood poised upon the point of panic.

 

“Eccles, is it you?”

 

The whisper was both shrill and shaky. As it ceased Kirkwood was

half blinded by a flash of light, striking him squarely in the eyes.

Involuntarily he shrank back a pace, to the first step from the top.

Instantaneously the light was eclipsed.

 

“Halt or—or I fire!”

 

By now he realized that he had been scrutinized by the aid of an electric

hand-lamp. The tremulous whisper told him something else—that the speaker

suffered from nerves as high-strung as his own. The knowledge gave him

inspiration. He cried at a venture, in a guarded voice, “Hands up!”—and

struck out smartly with his stick. Its ferrule impinged upon something soft

but heavy. Simultaneously he heard a low, frightened cry, the cane was

swept aside, a blow landed glancingly on his shoulder, and he was carried

fairly off his feet by the weight of a man hurled bodily upon him with

staggering force and passion. Reeling, he was borne back and down a step

or two, and then,—choking on an oath,—dropped his cane and with one hand

caught the balusters, while the other tore ineffectually at wrists of

hands that clutched his throat. So, for a space, the two hung, panting and

struggling.

 

Then endeavoring to swing his shoulders over against the wall, Kirkwood

released his grip on the hand-rail and stumbled on the stairs, throwing his

antagonist out of balance. The latter plunged downward, dragging Kirkwood

with him. Clawing, kicking, grappling, they went to the bottom, jolted

violently by each step; but long before the last was reached, Kirkwood’s

throat was free.

 

Throwing himself off, he got to his feet and grasped the railing for

support; then waited, panting, trying to get his bearings. Himself

painfully shaken and bruised, he shrewdly surmised that his assailant had

fared as ill, if not worse. And, in point of fact, the man lay with neither

move nor moan, still as death at the American’s feet.

 

And once more silence had folded its wings over Number 9, Frognall Street.

 

More conscious of that terrifying, motionless presence beneath him, than

able to distinguish it by power of vision, he endured interminable minutes

of trembling horror, in a witless daze, before he thought of his matchbox.

Immediately he found it and struck a light. As the wood caught and the

bright small flame leaped in the pent air, he leaned forward, over the

body, breathlessly dreading what he must discover.

 

The man lay quiet, head upon the floor, legs and hips on the stairs. One

arm had fallen over his face, hiding the upper half. The hand gleamed white

and delicate as a woman’s. His chin was smooth and round, his lips thin and

petulant. Beneath his topcoat, evening dress clothed a short and slender

figure. Nothing whatever of his appearance suggested the burly ruffian, the

midnight marauder; he seemed little more than a boy old enough to dress

for dinner. In his attitude there was something pitifully suggestive of a

beaten child, thrown into a corner.