Island of Terror Read online

  He pressed out his cigarette and rose: there was one thing he could do at once which would not commit him to any particular course of action in the future. He went to the telephone and rang up Grosvenor A123. A man’s voice answered and he asked to speak to Miss Draycott. She came almost at once, and her first words were – “Is that you, Arthur?”

  “I’m afraid not, Miss Draycott,” he said gently. “It’s Maitland speaking.”

  He heard the little sigh of disappointment, and felt horribly guilty. Poor girl! if she only knew the truth.

  “I got your note,” he went on, “and I’ll come round tomorrow about noon. And in the meantime I want you to be sure that that piece of paper is not lost. Is there a safe in the house?”

  “No: there isn’t,” came her voice. “Mr Maitland, it’s most extraordinary that you should have rung up about that. Do you think it’s really valuable?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’m certain that while we were at dinner tonight somebody tried to burgle my room.”

  “Hold hard,” said Jim. “Where are you speaking from? Where’s the telephone? Wait a minute – don’t answer. Only say yes or no to my questions. Is it in the hall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you be overheard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then be careful. Now one more question – are you prepared to trust me implicitly?”

  Came a soft laugh. “What can I say but – yes?”

  “You haven’t known me very long, have you?” he answered. “And what I’m going to ask you to do will entail a lot of faith in a comparative stranger. Now is there a letterbox anywhere near your house? Just say yes or no.”

  “Yes.’’

  “Could you slip out and post a letter there now at once?”

  “Yes: quite easily.”

  “Then would you put that paper in an envelope, address it to me here at the club, and post it?”

  “Well, if you think…”

  There was the faintest perceptible pause and her voice sounded a little doubtful.

  “I do think,” said Jim quietly. “His Majesty’s post is the safest thing in the world, Miss Draycott. But put it in the box yourself. I will bring it round with me tomorrow, and we’ll discuss the whole thing.”

  “All right,” she said with sudden determination. “I’ll do it now.”

  “Good!” he cried. “And one word more. Do not, if you’ll take my advice, talk about it to anyone.”

  “I see that you do think there is something in it.” There was a note of excitement in her voice.

  “There may or may not be,” he answered guardedly. “If there isn’t it doesn’t matter: if there is that paper is safer in the post than in your house. Good night, Miss Draycott: I’ll be round about twelve tomorrow.”

  He rang off and left the box thoughtfully. So she seemed to think that someone had tried to burgle her room. Was that another coincidence? Surely it could not be. And as Jim Maitland re-entered the smoking-room he proposed a silent but hearty vote of thanks to his cousin for having taken him to the Bright Young Things’ entertainment.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Do you think we’ll have any luck, Jim?”

  “I haven’t a notion, my dear fellow. I’ll answer your question in half an hour.”

  The two men had just turned into Oakleigh Avenue. The car had been left in a garage in Hampstead, as Jim Maitland feared it might prove conspicuous if left standing in the road. Moreover he had no idea how long his visit would take. The road was as deserted as the previous night: save for an occasional taxi homeward bound with a theatre party they saw no one for the first quarter of a mile.

  “I think I’ll recognise the house,” he said at length. “If not we’ll go to where you had your party and cast back. I’ll get it then for a certainty. Hullo! what’s the excitement in front?”

  He paused, pulling his cousin into the shadow. A car was drawn up about a hundred yards ahead and some men were standing by it. An altercation of sorts was in progress: their voices – though not the actual words – could be clearly heard. And one, at any rate, seemed very angry.

  “We’ll saunter on slowly, Percy. For it seems to me they must be fairly adjacent to the house we want.”

  “I tell you it’s a damned scandal.” Suddenly the sentence came distinctly. “We’ll break the blasted place open. It’s a club, isn’t it? They’ve got no right to shut.”

  They were close now, and by the light of a street lamp, they could see what was happening. There were four men in evening clothes, and three of them were trying to pacify the fourth, and get him back into the car.

  “Shut up, you fool,” cried one of them, glancing over his shoulder. “The place is closed.” And then in a hoarse mutter as he saw Jim and his cousin – “Police.”

  Still protesting angrily the fourth man allowed himself to be pushed into the car, which drove rapidly away.

  “Took us for plain-clothes men,” said Jim with a laugh. “And that answers one of our questions. Evidently no gambling tonight. And it also marks down the house.”

  He inspected it carefully and after a while he nodded.

  “Yes: this is the spot. There’s the tree I stood behind last night. But they’re all so confoundedly alike, these houses up here. Now, Percy, my boy, the fun begins – or let’s hope so.”

  “I suppose you’re right, laddie,” said his cousin gloomily. “Personally it’s not my idea of laughter and games. The bally place gives me the willies.”

  Jim laughed.

  “Cheer up,” he cried. “It’s much livelier inside.”

  He took a swift glance up and down the road: then he opened the gate and stepped into the drive. And then for a moment he paused with his eyes fixed on a patch of ground on which the street lamp shone.

  “See that,” he said quietly. “That deepish track. There has been a heavy vehicle in here today. Probably a pantechnicon. The birds have flown all right, or I’m a Dutchman.”

  “You’re quick, Jim,” said his cousin. “I’d never have noticed that.”

  “Because your eyes aren’t trained,” answered the other. “You see, but you don’t observe. Come on – there’s no good standing here. Though I’m afraid we’re going to have our trouble for nothing.”

  He led the way swiftly to the back of the house. The window was open, just as he had left it, and without further ado he swung himself into the room.

  “Not a sound,” he whispered, as his cousin joined him. “Keep your torch handy.”

  Carefully screening his own from the window behind him, he switched it on. And for the second time he stood very still with his eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Do you see that?” he breathed. “I wonder what it means. It’s odd – very odd.”

  The dust still lay thick on the floor, and as he turned his torch from side to side his cousin began to grasp what he was driving at. Across the centre of the room were the imprints of very visible footmarks which went from the window towards the door. In one of them Jim Maitland placed his foot: it fitted exactly. They were his tracks of the previous night. But they were not the only ones. Sometimes crossing one another, but for most of the way as clear and distinct as those made by Jim were other footsteps. And it was at these that he was intently peering.

  The foot was small – like a woman’s, and the distance between each step was short – so short, in fact, that the tracks might have been made by a child. That they were all the work of one person was obvious, but beyond that Percy’s brain failed to advance. Some small girl presumably had been running round the room, and he failed to see why the matter should interest his cousin.

  “What do you make of it, Percy?” came in a whisper from Jim.

  “Looks as if a girls’ school had been having a dancing lesson, old lad. Let’s push on: this room gives me the hump.”

  “You fat-headed blighter. Do you mean to say you can’t read those marks? Look at that set of tracks.”

  Jim focus
ed his torch on one of them. “Which way was the person going who made those?”

  “From the window to the door,” answered his cousin.

  “Good boy. And now those?”

  “From the door to the window.”

  “Getting quite bright. Now take the last lot.”

  “They are from the window to the door.”

  “Right again. Now think it out. Two lines from the window to the door, and only one from the door to the window. And all the same person.”

  Percy’s brain wrestled with the problem manfully.

  “Whoever did it must have been ga-ga,” he said at length. “I mean, fancy running about this place for fun.”

  “And how did the person run? Where did he start from – the door or the window?”

  Once again Percy’s brain creaked.

  “Window to door,” he muttered. “Door to window: window to door.”

  “Not quite right, Percy – but near enough. So where is he now?”

  And suddenly the full significance of it sank in.

  “Good Lord!” he cried. “He must be in the house.”

  “Precisely,” said Jim. “Therefore don’t shout, and keep your wits about you. For it was no small girl who made those tracks. Now – follow me.”

  They passed up the stairs into the hall. Percy close on his cousin’s heels. What had seemed perfectly priceless in the club was not turning out quite such good value as he had expected. From outside came the sound of a passing car: then the same deathly silence settled on the house again.

  “Jim,” he whispered.

  There was no answer, and putting out his hand he encountered air. His cousin was not there.

  “Jim.” The whisper was louder, and the next instant a hand gripped his arm, so unexpectedly that he almost cried out.

  “Shut up, you young idiot. I thought you were behind me. I’ve been up to the first landing.”

  “How jolly,” remarked Percy. “Are you going up again?”

  “To the second floor,” whispered Jim. “Had a look at the roulette-room: everything dismantled, as I expected.”

  He was creeping up the stairs as he spoke, and at the top of the flight he paused.

  “Do you hear anything?” he breathed in the other’s ear.

  But Percy could hear nothing save the thumping of his own heart, and was only conscious of a strong desire to flee. If this was the normal manner of a burglar’s life he proposed to stick to bigamy in the crime line.

  “Perhaps I was mistaken,” whispered Jim. “Come on.”

  They crept up the next flight, and again Jim stopped.

  “I’m going to switch on my torch,” he muttered. “If we’re caught – we’re caught.”

  But the passage was empty, and he flung open the door of the room where the body had been. Then like a flash he stepped back: opening doors can be a dangerous occupation. But nothing happened, and after a while he entered.

  The room was as he had left it, save that there was no trace of the dead man. None of the furniture had been moved: papers still littered the top of the desk.

  “Stay by the door, Percy,” he said quietly. “No – not in the centre, old lad: stand to one side. And keep your ears skinned for any sound.”

  He flashed his torch over the papers on the desk, but beyond a few bills and receipts there was nothing of any interest. They were made out to Mr M Johnson, which might have been genuine or might not: anyway, they did not advance things.

  He knelt down on the floor where the body had been, and after a while his attention was attracted by a small piece of paper that was lying just under the bottom of the desk. It was so placed that had he not been on his hands and knees he would never have noticed it, the desk would have hidden it. He picked it up and examined it: then he whistled softly to himself.

  It was clearly one corner of a larger piece of paper. It had been torn off violently; the distortion of the paper was obvious. Moreover it was discoloured as if it had been held tightly between a finger and thumb which were warm. Was it possible, he reflected, that this scrap had been in the dead man’s hand, and had fallen under the desk when he himself fell?

  He held it up to the light and studied it carefully.

  The two letters WE had been written in indelible pencil, and were presumably part of a longer word, But the main point of interest lay not so much in what it might mean – with such a small clue that was bound to be a closed book to them for the time – but in the fact of its presence at all. Because it seemed to Jim that that scrap of paper justified his line of action. There was something more to it than a mere gambling row, and it was going to be his job to find out what. He put it carefully in his pocketbook, and straightened up. And he was on the point of telling his cousin that they would hook it when he heard the unmistakable sound of a board creaking in the passage outside. He signalled to Percy to stand still: then he waited motionless, his torch focused on the floor. He knew that in a moment or two he would see again that misshapen figure, and in spite of the element of surprise being absent a queer little thrill ran through him. There came another creak, and the dwarf was standing in the room.

  He saw Percy give an uncontrollable start: then for a while the three of them stood without movement. Suddenly the blind man switched on the light, walked to the desk and sat down. He picked up the telephone, and Jim made a sign with his hand towards the door. If possible he wanted to get away without being discovered, and as silently as a cat he crossed the room.

  “Is that Exchange? Mr Johnson, of 95, Oakleigh Avenue, speaking. My call is for rather an unusual purpose. Would you make quite sure you have the name and address correct? Perhaps you would repeat it. Yes: that’s quite right. Well, would you make a special note in case a call comes through for him, that a Mr Jim Maitland is with me at the moment? Yes: Jim Maitland. Thank you so much. I regret having to trouble you.”

  He put down the receiver and lay back in his chair with a smile, while Jim Maitland stood in the centre of the room staring fascinated at him. As far as he knew he had not made a sound, and yet the little devil had spotted him.

  “Good evening, Mr Maitland.” His voice was suave. “Won’t you introduce your friend? You can, of course, if you prefer it go away. At the same time, having taken all the trouble you have, a little chat might clear the air.”

  “How long have you known I was here?” asked Jim curiously.

  “Ever since you arrived,” replied the other. “You are the most silent mover, Mr Maitland, that I have ever met, and I congratulate you on it. But I have certain advantages, as you know. I trust your little experience last night has done you no harm.”

  Jim Maitland lit a cigarette, and pulling up a chair, sat down. The situation was a novel one for him. Not for many years had he found himself similarly placed. On several occasions he had been in tight corners, where only quick shooting and his great strength had saved him. But that had been physical: this was mental. And not since he could remember, did he recall having been up against one man who so definitely threatened him with an inferiority complex.

  “Quite right,” continued the blind man. Make yourself comfortable. And your friend too. By the way, you still have not introduced us.”

  “It would be a little awkward for you if he happened to be connected with the police,” remarked Jim.

  “A little,” agreed the other. “But I happen to know he is not. The police do not as a general rule own Bentleys or belong to the Dorchester club.”

  “True, Mr Dresler – very true.”

  “Did that rat Goldstein tell you my name?” snapped the dwarf.

  “Your information with regard to my movements seems fairly complete,” remarked Jim. “It is refreshing to find something you don’t know. However, for your benefit it was not Goldstein. He disowned all knowledge of you, though I fear he did not do it very well. No, Mr Dresler, it appears that you are quite a well-known character in the criminal world.”

  “You flatter me,” said the other. “At
the same time your use of the word criminal is hardly polite.”

  “And I was just wondering,” continued Jim, “what would be the result if I used your telephone, not for the exchange, but for the police station.”

  The blind man waved a deprecating hand.

  “I admit, Mr Maitland, that such a course is possible. Though I should hate to think that you would do anything so crude. What, incidentally, would you tell them?”

  “The truth,” said Jim briefly. “As seen by me last night.”

  “As I said, such a course is possible,” repeated the other. “Nevertheless, there are one or two small points that strike me. In the first place what are you both doing in this house, and how did you get in?”

  “You know quite well how I got in.”

  “My dear sir, of course. But the police would want to know. And to the official eye it looks very like house-breaking. A serious offence, Mr Maitland. Then there is a further point. Why not tell the police at Streatham this afternoon whatever story you are proposing to tell them now?”

  “Agreed,” said Jim. “They would probably be very angry with me. But, Mr Dresler, they would, I think, be even more angry with you.”

  “I doubt it. After all, your conduct to the official eye has been most reprehensible. You arrived here last night, having broken into the house, in a condition of disgusting drunkenness. So violent did you become that I was on the point of summoning assistance when mercifully you fell asleep. And two friends of mine very kindly laid you out to cool somewhere.”

  “Do you deny that a man was shot in this room last night?”

  “My dear Mr Maitland – what an absurd delusion. You must have been more drunk even than I thought. It is perfectly true that a man was knocked down. But – shot! Why, where is the body? What has become of it? And it that is the accusation you have to bring – the gravest of all, murder – it was doubly reprehensible of you not to tell the police at once.”