The Crimson Blind

F >> Fred M. White >> The Crimson Blind

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

"Well," Littimer cried, "and how have you been getting on?"

Miss Christabel Lee looked up, smilingly.

"I am getting on very well indeed," she said. "You see, I have made a
study of this kind of thing all my lifetime, and most of your pictures
are like old friends to me. Do you know, I fancy that you and I are going
to manage very well together?"

"Oh, do you? They say I am pretty formidable at times."

"I shan't mind that a bit. You see, my father was a man with a
villainous temper. But a woman can always get the better of a
bad-tempered man unless he happens to be one of the lower classes who
uses his boots. If he is a gentleman you have him utterly at your mercy.
Have you a sharp tongue?"

"I flatter myself I can be pretty blistering on occasions," Littimer
said, grimly.

"How delightful! So can I. You and I will have some famous battles later
on. Only I warn you that I never lose my temper, which gives me a
tremendous advantage. I haven't been very well lately, so you must be
nice to me for a week or two."

Littimer smiled and nodded. The grim lord of the castle was not
accustomed to this kind of thing, and he was telling himself that he
rather liked it.

"And now show me the Rembrandt," Miss Lee said, impatiently.

Littimer led the way to a distant alcove lighted from the side by a
latticed window. There was only one picture in the excellent light there,
and that was the famous Rembrandt engraving. Littimer's eyes lighted up
quite lovingly as they rested upon it. The Florentine frame was hung so
low that Miss Lee could bring her face on a level with it.

"This is the picture that was stolen from you?" she asked.

"Yes, that's the thing that there was all the fuss about. It made a great
stir at the time. But I don't expect that it will happen again."

"Why not?" Miss Lee asked. "When an attempt of that sort is made it is
usually followed by another, sometimes after the lapse of years. Anybody
getting through that window could easily get the frame from its two nails
and take out the paper."

"Do you think so?" Littimer asked, uneasily.

"I am certain of it. Take my advice and make it secure. The panels behind
are hard wood--thick black oak. Lord Littimer, I am going to get four
brass-headed stays and drive them through some of the open ornamental
work into the panel so as to make the picture quite secure. It is an iron
frame, I suppose."

"Wrought-iron, gilt," said Littimer. "Yes, one could easily drive four
brass-headed stays through the open work and make the thing safe. I'll
have it seen to."

But Miss Lee insisted that there was no time like the present. She had
discovered that Littimer had an excellent carpenter's shop on the
premises; indeed, she admitted to being no mean performer with the lathe
herself. She flitted down the stairs light as thistledown.

"A charming girl!" Littimer said, cynically. "I wonder why she came to
this dull hole? A quarrel with her young man, perhaps. If I were a young
man myself I might--But women are all the same. I should be a happier man
if I had never trusted one. If--"

The face darkened; a heavy scowl lined his brows as he paced up and
down. Christabel came back presently with hammer and some brass-headed
stays in her hand.

"Don't utterly destroy the frame," Littimer said, resignedly. "It is
reputed to be Ouentin Matsy's work, and I had it cut to its present
fashion. I'll go to the end of the gallery till the execution's over."

"On the contrary," Miss Lee said, firmly, "you will stay where you
are told."

A little to his own surprise Littimer remained. He saw the nails driven
firmly in and finished off with a punch so that there might be no danger
of hammering the exquisitely wrought frame. Miss Lee stood regarding her
work with a suggestion of pride.

"There," she said, "I flatter myself a carpenter could have done
no better."

"You don't know our typical carpenter," Littimer said. "Here is Tredwell
with a telegram. For Miss Lee? I hope it isn't an intimation that some
relative has died and left you a fortune. At least, if it is, you mustn't
go until we've had one of those quarrels you promised me."

Christabel glanced at the telegram and slipped it into her pocket. There
were just a few words in the telegram that would have been
unintelligible to the ordinary understanding. The girl did not even
comprehend, but Littimer's eyes were upon her, and the cipher had to
keep for a time. Littimer walked away at an intimation that his steward
desired to see him.

Instantly the girl's manner changed. She glanced at the Rembrandt with a
shrewd smile that meant something beyond a mere act of prudence well
done. Then she went down to the library and began an eager search for a
certain book. She found it at length, the "David Copperfield" in the
"Charles Dickens" edition of the great novelist's works. For the next
hour or so she was flitting over the pages with the cipher telegram
spread out before her. A little later and the few jumbled, meaningless
words were coded out into a lengthy message. Christabel read them over a
few times, then with the aid of a vesta she reduced the whole thing,
telegram and all, to tinder, which she carefully crushed and flung out of
the window.

She looked away down the terrace, she glanced at the dappled deer
knee-deep in the bracken, she caught a glimpse of the smiling sea, and
her face saddened for a moment.

"How lovely it all is," she murmured. "How exquisitely beautiful and how
utterly sad! And to think that if I possessed the magician's wand for a
moment I could make everything smile again. He is a good man--a better
man than anybody takes him to be. Under his placid, cynical surface he
conceals a deal of suffering. Well, we shall see."

She replaced the "Copperfield" on the shelf and turned to go again.
In the hall she met Lord Littimer dressed for riding. He smiled as
she passed.

"Au revoir till dinner-time," he said. "I've got to go and see a tenant.
Oh, yes, I shall certainly expect the pleasure of your company to dinner.
And now that the Rembrandt--"

"It is safe for the afternoon," Christabel laughed. "It is generally
when the family are dining that the burglar has his busy time. A
pleasant ride to you."

CHAPTER XXVI

AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

Lord Littimer returned, as he declared, with the spirits and appetite of
a schoolboy. All the same, he did not for one moment abandon his usual
critical analysis. He rattled on gaily, but he was studying his guest all
the same. She might have been the typical American lady student; but he
was not blind to the fact that the plain muslin and lace frock she wore
was made in Paris or that her manners and style must have been picked up
in the best society. She sat there under the shaded lights and behind the
bank of flowers like as to the manner born, and her accent was only
sufficiently American to render her conversation piquant.

"You have always been used to this class of life?" Littimer asked.

"There you are quite mistaken," Christabel said, coolly. "For the last
few years my existence has been anything but a bed of roses. And your
remark, my lord, savours slightly of impertinent curiosity. I might as
well ask you why your family is not here."

"We agree to differ," Littimer responded. "I recollect it caused me a
great deal of annoyance at the time. And my son chose to take his
mother's part. You knew I had a son?"

"Yes," said Christabel, without looking up from the peach she was
peeling. "I have met him."

"Indeed. And what opinion did you form of my son, may I ask?"

"Well, I rather liked him. He seemed to me to be suffering from some
great trouble, and trouble I am sure that was not of his own creating."

"Which means to say you feel rather sorry for Frank. But when you say the
trouble was not of his own creating you are entirely mistaken. It is not
a nice thing to say, Miss Lee, but my son was an utter and most
unmitigated young scoundrel. If he came here he would be ordered out of
the house. So far as I am concerned, I have no son at all. He sides with
his mother, and his mother has a considerable private fortune of her own.
Where she is at the present moment I have no idea. Nor do I care. Seems
odd, does it not, that I should have been very fond of that woman at one
time, just as it seems odd to think that I should have once been fond of
treacle tart?"

Littimer spoke evenly and quietly, with his eyes full upon the girl. He
was deceiving himself, but he was not deceiving her for a moment. His
callousness seemed to be all the more marked because the servants were in
the room. But Christabel could see clearly what an effort it was.

"You love your wife still," she said, so low that only Littimer heard.
His eyes flashed, his face flamed with a sudden spasm of passion.

"Are we to quarrel so early as this?" he whispered.

"I never quarrel," Christabel said, coolly; "I leave my antagonist to do
that. But I have met your son, and I like him. He may be weak, but he is
a gentleman. You have made a mistake, and some day you will be sorry for
it. Do you grow those orchids yourself?"

Littimer laughed, with no sign of anger remaining. All the same,
Christabel could see that his thin brown hand was shaking. She noticed
the lines that pain had given under those shrewd black eyes.

"You must see my orchids," he said. "Most of the specimens I obtained
myself. They tell me I have at least three unique kinds. And now, if you
will permit me, I am going to smoke. The drawing-room is at your
disposal, though I rarely enter it myself. I always retire at eleven, but
that need not bind you in any way. It has been altogether a most
delightful evening."

But Christabel did not dally long in the drawing-room. As she went
upstairs and along the corridor she heard the snapping of the electric
lights all over the house as the servants were preparing to retire. She
paused just a moment in the alcove where the precious Rembrandt was and
located carefully the position of the switch there. Then she retired to
her own room, where she changed her dress for a simple black gown. A big
clock somewhere was striking twelve as she finished. She looked out of
her door. The whole house was in darkness, the silence seemed to cling
like a curtain.

She paused for a moment as if afraid to take the next step. If it was
fear, she shook it aside resolutely and crept into the corridor. She
carried something shining in her hands--something that gleamed in the
dim, uncertain light from the big window. She stood just for an instant
with a feeling that somebody was climbing up the ivy outside the house.
She felt her way along until she came to the alcove containing the
Rembrandt and then she stopped. Her hand slid along the wall till her
fingers touched the switch of the electric light.

She stood for a long time there perfectly motionless. It was a still
night outside, and there was nothing to account for the rustling of the
ivy leaves. The rattling came in jerks, spasmodically, stopping every now
and then and resuming again. It was no longer a matter of imagination, it
was a certainty. Somebody was climbing up the ivy to the window.

Leaning eagerly forward, Christabel could hear the sound of laboured
breathing. She seemed to see the outline of an arm outside, she could
catch the quick rattle of the sash, she could almost see a bent wire
crooked through the beaded edges of the casement. Yes, she was right.
The window swung noiselessly back and a figure stood poised on the
ledge outside.

With a quick breath and a fluttering of her heart Christabel felt for
the switch.

"It will be all right," she murmured; "the other one will fancy that the
light is necessary. Courage, my dear courage, and the game is yours. Ah!"

The intruder dropped inside and pulled the window behind him. Evidently
he was on familiar ground, though he seemed to be seeking an unfamiliar
object. Christabel's hand stole along to the switch; there was a click,
and the alcove was bathed in brilliant light. The intruder shrank back
with a startled cry. He rubbed his dazed eyes.

"Why not come in through the front door, Mr. Littimer?" Christabel
drawled, coolly.

Frank Littimer had no words for a moment. He was wondering who this woman
was and what she was doing here. American, evidently, by her accent, and
also by the revolver that she handled so assuredly.

"That is the way you used to enter," Christabel proceeded, "when you had
been out contrary to parental instructions and the keepers expected to
have a fracas with the poachers. Your bedroom being exactly opposite,
detection was no easy matter. Your bedroom has never been touched since
you left. The key is still outside the door. Will you kindly enter it?"

"But--" Frank stammered. "But I assure you that I cannot--"

"Take the Rembrandt away. You cannot. The frame is of iron, and it is
fastened to the wall. It would take an experienced carpenter quite a
long time to remove it. Therefore your mission has failed. It is very
annoying, because it puts the other man in a very awkward position.
The position is going to be still more awkward presently. Please go to
your room."

"My dear lady, if my father knows that I am in the house--"

"He is not going to know that you are in the house, at least not for some
little time. And when you see him it will be better not to say more than
is necessary. Later on you will recognise what a friend I am to you."

"You are not showing it at present," Littimer said, desperately.

"The patient rarely sees any virtue in his medicine. Now, please, go to
your room. I can hear the other man muttering and getting anxious down
below. Now, if you approach that window again I am pretty certain that my
revolver will go off. You see, I am an American, and we are so careless
with such weapons. Please go to your room at once."

"And if I refuse your ridiculous request?"

"You will not find my request in the least ridiculous. If you refuse I
shall hold you up with my weapon and alarm the whole house. But I don't
want to do that, for the sake of the other man. He is so very
respectable, you know, and anything unconventional may be so awkward for
him. Yes, it is just as I expected. He is coming up the ivy to
investigate himself. Go!"

The revolver covered Littimer quite steadily. He could see into the blue
rim, and he was conscious of strange cold sensations down his spine. A
revolver is not a pretty thing at the best of times; it is doubly
hazardous in the hands of a woman.

"What do you want with me?" he asked.

"My dear man, I want to do nothing with you. Only do as you are told
and--there! The other man is coming up the ivy. He can't understand the
light and you not returning. He imagines that you are looking in the
wrong place. Please go."

Littimer backed before the weapon, backed until he was in the doorway.
Suddenly the girl gave him a push, shut the door to, and turned the key
in the lock. Almost at the same instant another figure loomed large in
the window-frame.

CHAPTER XXVII

SLIGHTLY FARCICAL

Something bulky was struggling to get through the window. Half hidden in
the shadow, Christabel watched with the deepest interest. If she had been
afraid at first that sensation had entirely departed by this time. From
the expression of her face she might have been enjoying the novel
situation. It was certainly not without a suggestion of the farcical.

The burly figure contrived to squeeze through the narrow casement at
length and stood breathing loudly in the corridor. It was not a pleasant
sight that met Christabel's gaze--a big man with a white, set face and
rolling eyes and a stiff bandage about his throat. Evidently the intruder
was utterly exhausted, for he dropped into a chair and nursed his head
between his hands.

"Now what has become of that fool?" he muttered. "Ah!"

He looked round him uneasily, but his expression changed as his eyes fell
on the Rembrandt. He had the furtive look of a starving man who picks up
a purse whilst the owner is still in sight. He staggered towards the
picture and endeavoured to take it gently from the support. He tried
again and again, and then in a paroxysm of rage he tore at the
frame-work.

"I guess that it can't be done," Christabel said, drawlingly. "See,
stranger?"

Reginald Henson fairly gasped. As he turned round the ludicrous mixture
of cunning and confusion, anger and vexatious alarm on his face caused
the girl to smile.

"I--I beg your pardon," he stammered.

"I said it can't be done," the girl drawled, coolly. "Sandow couldn't do
it. The frame is made of iron and it is fixed to the wall by four long
stays. It's a neat job, though I say it myself; I persuaded Lord Littimer
to have it done. And when I heard you two prowling about down there I was
glad. I've got the other one safe."

"Oh, you've got the other one safe?" Henson said, blankly.

He would have liked to have burst out into a torrent of passion, only he
recognised his position. The thing was shamefully funny. It was anything
but nice for a man of his distinguished position to be detected in an act
suspiciously like vulgar burglary. Still, there must be some plausible
way out of the difficulty if he could only think of it. Only this girl
with the quaint, pretty face and spectacles did not look in the least
like a fool. He would have to try what blandishments would do.

"Are you aware who I am?" he asked, blandly.

"What does it matter? I've got the other one, and no doubt he will be
identified by the police. If he doesn't say too much he may get off with
a light sentence. It is quite easy to see that you are the greater
scoundrel of the two."

"My dear young lady, do you actually take me for a burglar?"

There was a note of deep pain in Henson's voice. He had dropped into a
chair again, with a feeling of utter weakness upon him. The girl's
resolute mien and the familiar way in which she handled her revolver
filled him with the deepest apprehension.

"I am a very old friend and relative of Lord Littimer's," he said.

"Oh, indeed. And is the other man a relative of Lord Littimer's also?"

"Oh, why, confound it, yes. The other man, as you call him, is Lord
Littimer's only son."

Christabel glanced at Henson, not without admiration.

"Well, you are certainly a cool hand," she said. "You are two clever
thieves who have come here for the express purpose of robbing Lord
Littimer of one of his art treasures. I happen to catch one, and he
immediately becomes the son of the owner of the place. I am so fortunate
as to bag the other bird, and he resolves himself into a relative of my
host's. And you really expect me to believe a Hans Andersen fairy story
like that!"

"I admit that appearances are against me," Henson said, humbly. "But I am
speaking the truth."

"Oh, indeed. Then why didn't you come in through the front door? The
violent exercise you were taking just now must be dangerous to a man of
your build!"

"I am afraid I shall have to make a clean breast of it," Henson said,
with what he fondly imagined to be an engaging smile. "You may, perhaps,
be aware that yonder Rembrandt has a history. It was stolen from its
present owner once, and I have always said that it will be stolen again.
Many a time have I urged Lord Littimer to make it secure."

"How grateful you should be to me for having done so!"

"Ah, you are cynical still, which is a bad thing for one so young
and--er--charming. I came down here to see my very noble relative, and
his son accompanied me. I came to try and make peace between father and
son. But that is a family matter which, forgive me, I cannot discuss with
a stranger. Our train was late, or we should have been here long ago. On
reaching the castle it struck me as a good idea to give Lord Littimer a
lesson as to his carelessness. My idea was to climb through the window,
abstract the Rembrandt, and slip quietly into my usual bedroom here. Then
in the morning, after the picture has been missed, I was going to tell
the whole story. That is why Mr. Littimer entered this way and why I
followed when I found that he had failed to return. It was a foolish
thing to do, and the _denouement_ has been most humiliating. I assure you
that is all."

"Not quite," Christabel drawled. "There is something else."

"And what may that be, my dear young lady?"

"To tell your story to Lord Littimer before you sleep. That kind of
romance may do for Great Britain, but it wouldn't make good family
reading in the States."

"But, my dear young lady, I beg of you, implore you--"

"Come off the grass! I'm to let you go quietly to bed and retire myself,
so that when morning arrives you will be missing together with as much
plunder as you can carry away. No, sir."

Henson advanced angrily. His prudence had gone for the time. As he came
down upon Christabel she raised her revolver and fired two shots in quick
succession over Henson's shoulder. The noise went echoing and
reverberating along the corridor like a crackling of thunder. A door came
open with a click, then a voice demanded to know what was wrong.

"Now I guess the fat is in the fire," Christabel said.

Henson dropped into a chair and groaned. Lord Littimer, elegantly attired
in a suit of silk pyjamas and carrying a revolver in his hand, came
coolly down the corridor. A curious servant or two would have followed,
but he waved them back crisply.

"Miss Lee," he said, with a faint, sarcastic emphasis, "and my dear
friend and relative, Reginald Henson--Reginald, the future owner of
Littimer Castle!"

"So he told me, but I wouldn't believe him," said Christabel.

"It is a cynical age," Littimer remarked. "Reginald, what does
this mean?"

Henson shook his head uneasily.

"The young lady persisted in taking me for a burglar," he groaned.

"And why not?" Christabel demanded. "I was just going to bed when I heard
voices in the forecourt below and footsteps creeping along. I came into
the corridor with my revolver. Presently one of the men climbed up the
ivy and got into the corridor. I covered him with my revolver and fairly
drove him into a bedroom and locked him in."

"So you killed with both barrels?" Littimer cried, with infinite
enjoyment.

"Then the other one came. He came to steal the Rembrandt."

"Nothing of the kind," the wretched Henson cried. "I came to give you a
lesson, Lord Littimer. My idea was to get in through the window, steal
the Rembrandt, and, when you had missed it, confess the whole story. My
character is safe."

"Giddy," Littimer said, reproachfully. "You are so young, so boyish, so
buoyant, Reginald. What would your future constituents have said had they
seen you creeping up the ivy? They are a grave people who take themselves
seriously. Egad, this would be a lovely story for one of those prying
society papers. 'The Philanthropist and the Picture.' I've a good mind to
send it to the Press myself."

Littimer sat down and laughed with pure enjoyment.

"And where is the other partridge?" he asked, presently.

Christabel seemed to hesitate for a moment, her sense of humour of the
situation had departed. Her hand shook as she turned the key in the door.

"I am afraid you are going to have an unpleasant surprise," Henson said.

Littimer glanced keenly at the speaker. All the laughter died out of
his eyes; his face grew set and stern as Frank Littimer emerged into
the light.

"And what are you doing here?" he asked, hoarsely. "What do you expect to
gain by taking part in a fool's trick like this? Did I not tell you never
to show your face here again?"

The young man said nothing. He stood there looking down, dogged, quiet,
like one tongue-tied. Littimer thundered out his question again. He
crossed over, laying his hands on his son's shoulders and shaking him as
a terrier might shake a rat.

"Did you come for anything?" he demanded. "Did you expect any
mercy from--"

Frank Littimer shook off his grasp gently. He looked up for the
first time.

"I expected nothing," he said. "I--I did not come of my own free will. I
am silent now for the sake of myself and others. But the time may
come--God knows it has been long delayed. For the present, I am bound in
honour to hold my tongue."

He flashed one little glance at Henson, a long, angry glance. Littimer
looked from one to the other in hesitation for a moment. The hard lines
between his brows softened.

"Perhaps I am wrong," he muttered. "Perhaps there has been a mistake
somewhere. And if ever I find out I have--pshaw, I am talking like a
sentimental schoolgirl. Have I not had evidence strong as proof of Holy
Writ that ... Get out of my sight, your presence angers me. Go, and never
let me see you again. Reginald, you were a fool to bring that boy here
to-night. See him off the premises and fasten the door again."

"Surely," Christabel interfered, "surely at this time of the night--"

"You should be in bed," Littimer said, tartly. "My dear young lady, if
you and I are to remain friends I must ask you to mind your own business.
It is a dreadfully difficult thing for a woman to do, but you must try.
You understand?"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26