The Crimson Blind

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"Pray be seated, Mr. Steel," the silvery voice said. "Believe me, had
there been any other way, I would not have given you all this trouble.
You found the parcel addressed to you? It is an earnest of good faith. Is
not that a correct English expression?"

David murmured that it was. But what did the speaker mean? She asked the
question like a student of the English language, yet her accent and
phrasing were perfect. She laughed again noiselessly, and once more Steel
caught the subtle, entrancing perfume.

"I make no further apology for dragging you here at this time," the sweet
voice said. "We knew that you were in the habit of sitting up alone late
at night, hence the telephone message. You will perhaps wonder how we
came to know so much of your private affairs. Rest assured that we learnt
nothing in Brighton. Presently you may gather why I am so deeply
interested in you; I have been for the past fortnight. You see, we were
not quite certain that you would come to our assistance unless we could
find some means of coercing you. Then we go to one of the smartest
inquiry agents in the world and say: 'Tell us all about Mr. David Steel
without delay. Money is no object.' In less than a week we know all about
Beckstein. We leave matters till the last moment. If you only knew how
revolting it all was!"

"So your tone seems to imply, madam," Steel said, drily.

"Oh, but truly. You were in great trouble, and we found a way to get you
out. At a price; ah, yes. But your trouble is nothing compared with
mine--which brings me to business. A fortnight ago last Monday you posted
to Mr. Vanstone, editor of the _Piccadilly Magazine_, the synopsis of the
first four or five chapters of a proposed serial for the journal in
question. You open that story with a young and beautiful woman who is in
deadly peril. Is not that so?"

"Yes," Steel said, faintly. "It is just as you suggest. But how--"

"Never mind that, because I am not going to tell you. In common
parlance--is not that the word?--that woman is in a frightful fix.
There is nothing strained about your heroine's situation, because I
have heard of people being in a similar plight before. Mr. Steel, I
want you to tell me truthfully and candidly, can you see the way clear
to save your heroine? Oh, I don't mean by the long arm of coincidence
or other favourite ruses known to your craft. I mean by common sense,
logical methods, by brilliant ruses, by Machiavelian means. Tell me, do
you see a way?"

The question came eagerly, almost imploringly, from the darkness. David
could hear the quick gasps of his questioner, could catch the rustle of
the silken corsage as she breathed.

"Yes," he said, "I can see a brilliant way out that would satisfy the
strictest logician. But you--"

"Thank Heaven! Mr. Steel, I am your heroine. I am placed in exactly the
same position as the woman whose story you are going to write. The
setting is different, the local colouring is not the same, but the same
deadly peril menaces me. For the love of Heaven hold out your hand to
save a lonely and desperate woman whose only crime is that she is rich
and beautiful. Providence had placed in my hands the gist of your
heroine's story. Hence this masquerade; hence the fact that you are here
to-night. I have helped _you_--help _me_ in return."

It was some time before Steel spoke.

"It shall be as you wish," he said. "I will tell you how I propose to
save my heroine. Her sufferings are fiction; yours will be real. But if
you are to be saved by the same means, Heaven help you to bear the
troubles that are in front of you. Before God, it would be more merciful
for me to be silent and let you go your own way."

CHAPTER III

THE VOICE IN THE DARKNESS

David was silent for some little time. The strangeness of the situation
had shut down on him again, and he was thinking of nothing else for the
moment. In the dead stillness of the place he could hear the quick
breathing of his companion; the rustle of her dress seemed near to him
and then to be very far off. Nor did the pitchy darkness yield a jot to
his now accustomed eyes. He held a hand close to his eyes, but he could
see nothing.

"Well?" the sweet voice in the darkness said, impatiently. "Well?"

"Believe me, I will give you all the assistance possible. If you would
only turn up the light--"

"Oh, I dare not. I have given my word of honour not to violate the seal
of secrecy. You may say that we have been absurdly cautious in this
matter, but you would not think so if you knew everything. Even now the
wretch who holds me in his power may have guessed my strategy and be
laughing at me. Some day, perhaps--"

The speaker stopped, with something like a sob in her throat.

"We are wasting precious time," she went on, more calmly. "I had better
tell you my history. In _your_ story a woman commits a crime: she is
guilty of a serious breach of trust to save the life of a man she loves.
By doing so she places the future and the happiness of many people in the
hands of an abandoned scoundrel. If she can only manage to regain the
thing she has parted from the situation is saved. Is not that so?"

"So far you have stated the case correctly," David murmured.

"As I said before, I am in practically similar case. Only, in my
situation, I hastened everything and risked the happiness of many people
for the sake of a little child."

"Ah!" David cried. "Your own child? No! The child of one very near and
dear to you, then. From the mere novelist point of view, that is a far
more artistic idea than mine. I see that I shall have to amend my story
before it is published."

A rippling little laugh came like the song of a bird in the darkness.

"Dear Mr. Steel," the voice said, "I implore you to do nothing of the
kind. You are a man of fertile imagination--a plot more or less makes
no difference to you. If you publish that story you go far on the way
to ruin me."

"I am afraid that I am in the dark in more senses than one," David
murmured.

"Then let me enlighten you. Daily your books are more widely read. My
enemy is a great novel reader. You publish that story, and what results?
You not only tell that enemy my story, but you show him my way out of the
difficulty, and show him how he can checkmate my every move. Perhaps,
after I have escaped from the net--"

"You are right," Steel said, promptly. "From a professional point of view
the story is abandoned. And now you want me to show you a rational and
logical, a _human_ way out."

"If you can do so you have my everlasting gratitude."

"Then you must tell me in detail what it is you want to recover. My
heroine parts with a document which the villain knows to be a forgery.
Money cannot buy it back because the villain can make as much money as he
likes by retaining it. He does as he likes with the family property; he
keeps my heroine's husband out of England by dangling the forgery and its
consequences over his head. What is to be done? How is the ruffian to be
bullied into a false sense of security by the one man who desires to
throw dust in his eyes?"

"Ah," the voice cried, "ah, if you could only tell me that! Let _my_
ruffian only imagine that I am dead; let him have proofs of it, and the
thing is done. I could reach him _then_; I could tear from him the letter
that--but I need not go into details. But he is cunning as the serpent.
Nothing but the most convincing proofs would satisfy him."

"A certificate of death signed by a physician beyond reproach?"

"Yes, that would do. But you couldn't get a medical man like that to
commit felony."

"No, but we could trick him into it," Steel exclaimed. "In my story a
fraud is perpetrated to blind the villain and to deprive him of his
weapons. It is a case of the end justifying the means. But it is one
thing, my dear lady, to commit fraud actually and to perpetrate it in a
novel. In the latter case you can defy the police, but unfortunately you
and I are dealing with real life. If I am to help you I must be a party
to a felony."

"But you will! You are not going to draw back now? Mr. Steel, I have
saved your home. You are a happy man compared to what you were two hours
ago. If the risk is great you have brains and imagination to get out of
danger. Show me how to do it, and the rest shall be mine. You have never
seen me, you know nothing, not even the name of the person who called you
over the telephone. You have only to keep your own counsel, and if I wade
in blood to my end you are safe. Tell me how I can die, disappear,
leaving that one man to believe I am no more. And don't make it too
ingenious. Don't forget that you promised to tell me a rational way out
of the difficulty. How can it be done?"

"In my pocket I have a cutting from the _Times_, which contains a
chapter from the history of a medical student who is alone in London. It
closely resembles my plot. He says he has no friends, and he deems it
prudent for reasons we need not discuss to let the world assume that he
is dead. The rest is tolerably easy. He disguises himself and goes to a
doctor of repute, whom he asks to come and see his brother--_i.e.,_
himself--who is dangerously ill. The doctor goes later in the day and
finds his patient in bed with severe internal inflammation. This is
brought about by a free use of albumen. I don't know what amount of
albumen one would take without extreme risk, but you could pump that
information out of any doctor. Well, our medical man calls again and yet
again, and finds his patient sinking. The next day the patient,
disguised, calls upon his doctor with the information that his 'brother'
is dead. The doctor is not in the least surprised, and without going to
view the body gives a certificate of death. Now, I admit that all this
sounds cheap and theatrical, but you can't get over facts. The thing
actually happened a little time ago in London, and there is no reason
why it shouldn't happen again."

"You suggest that I should do this thing?" the voice asked.

"Pardon me, I did nothing of the kind," Steel replied "You asked me to
show you how my heroine gets herself out of a terrible position, and I am
doing it. You are not without friends. The way I was called up tonight
and the way I was brought here prove that. With the aid of your friends
the thing is possible to you. You have only to find a lodging where
people are not too observant and a doctor who is too busy, or too
careless, to look after dead patients, and the thing is done. If you
desire to be looked upon as dead--especially by a powerful enemy--I
cannot recommend a more natural, rational way than this. As to the
details, they may be safely left to you. The clever manner in which you
have kept up the mystery to-night convinces me that I have nothing to
teach you in this direction. And if there is anything more I can do--"

"A thousand, thousand thanks," the voice cried, passionately. "To be
looked upon as 'dead,' to be near to the rascal who smiles to think that
I am in my grave.... And everything so dull and prosaic on the surface!
Yes, I have friends who will aid me in the business. Some day I may be
able to thank you face to face, to tell you how I managed to see your
plot. May I?"

The question came quite eagerly, almost imploringly. In the darkness
Steel felt a hand trembling on his breast, a cool, slim hand, with many
rings on the fingers. Steel took the hand and carried it to his lips.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he said. "And may you be
successful. Good-night."

"Good-night, and God bless you for a real gentleman and a true friend. I
will go out of the room first and put the lights up afterwards. You will
walk away and close the door behind you. The newspaper cutting! Thanks.
And once more good-night, but let us hope not good-bye."

She was gone. Steel could hear the distant dying swish of silk, the
rustling of the portiere, and then, with a flick, the lights came up
again. Half-blinded by the sudden illumination Steel fumbled his way to
the door and into the street. As he did so Hove Town Hall clock chimed
two. With a cigarette between his teeth David made his way home.

He could not think it all out yet; he would wait until he was in his own
comfortable chair under the roses and palms leading from his study. A
fine night of adventure, truly, and a paying one. He pressed the precious
packet of notes to his side and his soul expanded.

He was home at last. But surely he had closed the door before he started?
He remembered distinctly trying the latch. And here the latch was back
and the door open. The quick snap of the electric light declared nobody
in the dining-room. Beyond, the study was in darkness. Nobody there,
but--stop!

A stain on the carpet; another by the conservatory door. Pots of flowers
scattered about, and a huddled mass like a litter of empty sacks in one
corner. Then the huddled mass resolved itself into the figure of a man
with a white face smeared with blood. Dead! Oh, yes, dead enough.

Steel flew to the telephone and rang furiously.

"Give me 52, Police Station," he cried. "Are you there? Send somebody at
once up here--15, Downend Terrace. There has been murder done here. For
Heaven's sake come quickly."

Steel dropped the receiver and stared with strained eyes at the dreadful
sight before him.

CHAPTER IV

IN EXTREMIS

For some time--a minute, an hour--Steel stood over the dreadful thing
huddled upon the floor of his conservatory. Just then he was incapable of
consecutive ideas.

His mind began to move at length. The more he thought of it the more
absolutely certain he was that he had fastened the door before leaving
the house. True, the latch was only an ordinary one, and a key might
easily have been made to fit it. As a matter of fact, David had two, one
in reserve in case of accidents. The other was usually kept in a
jewel-drawer of the dressing-table. Perhaps--

David went quietly upstairs. It was just possible that the murderer was
in the house. But the closest search brought nothing to light. He pulled
out the jewel-drawer in the dressing-table. The spare latchkey had gone!
Here was something to go upon.

Then there was a rumbling of an electric bell somewhere that set David's
heart beating like a drum. The hall light streamed on a policeman in
uniform and an inspector in a dark overcoat and a hard felt hat. On the
pavement was a long shallow tray, which David recognised mechanically as
the ambulance.

"Something very serious, sir?" Inspector Marley asked, quietly. "I've
brought the doctor with me."

David nodded. Both the inspector and the doctor were acquaintances of
his. He closed the door and led the way into the study. Just inside the
conservatory and not far from the huddled figure lay David's new
cigar-case. Doubtless, without knowing it, the owner had whisked it off
the table when he had sprung the telephone.

"'Um," Marley muttered. "Is this a clue, or yours, sir?"

He lifted the case with its diamonds gleaming like stars on a dark night.
David had forgotten all about it for the time, had forgotten where it
came from, or that it contained L250 in bank-notes.

"Not mine," he said. "I mean to say, of course, it is mine. A recent
present. The shock of this discovery has deprived me of my senses
pretty well."

Marley laid the cigar-case on the table. It seemed strange to him, who
could follow a tragedy calmly, that a man should forget his own property.
Meanwhile Cross was bending over the body. David could see a face smooth
like that of a woman. A quick little exclamation came from the doctor.

"A drop of brandy here, and quick as possible," he commanded.

"You don't mean to say," Steel began; "you don't--"

Cross waved his arm, impatiently. The brandy was procured as speedily as
possible. Steel, watching intently, fancied that he detected a slight
flicker of the muscles of the white, stark face.

"Bring the ambulance here," Cross said, curtly. "If we can get this poor
chap to the hospital there is just a chance for him. Fortunately, we have
not many yards to go."

As far as elucidation went Marley naturally looked to Steel.

"I should like to have your explanation, sir," he said, gravely.

"Positively, I have no explanation to offer," David replied. "About
midnight I let myself out to go for a stroll, carefully closing the door
behind me. Naturally, the door was on the latch. When I came back an hour
or so later, to my horror and surprise I found those marks of a struggle
yonder and that poor fellow lying on the floor of the conservatory."

"'Um. Was the door fast on your return?"

"No, it was pulled to, but it was open all the same."

"You didn't happen to lose your latch-key during your midnight
stroll, sir?"

"No, it was only when I put my key in the door that I discovered it to be
open. I have a spare latch-key which I keep for emergencies, but when I
went to look for it just now the key was not to be found. When I came
back the house was perfectly quiet."

"What family have you, sir? And what kind of servants?"

"There is only myself and my mother, with three maids. You may dismiss
any suspicion of the servants from your mind at once. My mother trained
them all in the old vicarage where I was born, and not one of the trio
has been with us less than twelve years."

"That simplifies matters somewhat," Marley said, thoughtfully.
"Apparently your latch-key was stolen by somebody who has made careful
study of your habits. Do you generally go for late walks after your
household has gone to bed, sir?"

David replied somewhat grudgingly that he had never done such a thing
before. He would like to have concealed the fact, but it was bound to
come out sooner or later. He had strolled along the front and round
Brunswick Square. Marley shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, it's a bit of a puzzle to me," he admitted. "You go out for a
midnight walk--a thing you have never done before--and when you come back
you find somebody has got into your house by means of a stolen latch-key
and murdered somebody else in your conservatory. According to that, two
people must have entered the house."

"That's logic," David admitted. "There can be no murder without the slain
_and_ the slayer. My impression is that somebody who knows the ways of
the house watched me depart. Then he lured his victim in here under
pretence that it was his own house--he had the purloined latch-key--and
murdered him. Audacious, but a far safer way than doing it out of doors."

But Marley's imagination refused to go so far. The theory was plausible
enough, he pointed out respectfully, if the assassin had been assured
that these midnight rambles were a matter of custom. The point was a
shrewd one, and Steel had to admit it. He almost wished now that he had
suggested that he often took these midnight rambles. He regretted the
fiction still more when Marley asked if he had had some appointment
elsewhere to-night.

"No," David said, promptly, "I hadn't."

He prevaricated without hesitation. His adventure in Brunswick Square
could not possibly have anything to do with the tragedy, and nothing
would be gained by betraying that trust.

"I'll run round to the hospital and come and see you again in the
morning, sir," Marley said. "Whatever was the nature of the crime, it
wasn't robbery, or the criminal wouldn't have left that cigar-case of
yours behind. Sir James Lythem had one stolen like that at the last
races, and he valued it at L80."

"I'll come as far as the hospital with you," said Steel.

At the bottom of the flight of steps they encountered Dr. Cross and the
policeman. The former handed over to Marley a pocket-book and some
papers, together with a watch and chain.

"Everything that we could find upon him," he explained.

"Is the poor fellow dead yet?" David asked.

"No," Cross replied. "He was stabbed twice in the back in the region of
the liver. I could not say for sure, but there is just a chance that he
may recover. But one thing is pretty certain--it will be a good long
time before he is in a position to say anything for himself. Good-night,
Mr. Steel."

David went indoors thoughtfully, with a general feeling that something
like a hand had grasped his brain and was squeezing it like a sponge. He
was free from his carking anxiety now, but it seemed to him that he was
paying a heavy price for his liberty. Mechanically, he counted out the
bank-notes, and almost as mechanically he cut his initials on the
gun-metal inside the cigar-case. He was one of the kind of men who like
to have their initials everywhere.

He snapped the lights out and went to bed at last. But not to sleep. The
welcome dawn came at length and David took his bath gratefully. He would
have to tell his mother what had happened, suppressing all reference to
the Brunswick Square episode. It was not a pleasant story, but Mrs. Steel
assimilated it at length over her early tea and toast.

"It might have been you, my dear," she said, placidly. "And, indeed, it
is a dreadful business. But why not telephone to the hospital and ask how
the poor fellow is?"

The patient was better but was still in an unconscious condition.

CHAPTER V

"RECEIVED WITH THANKS."

Steel swallowed a hasty breakfast and hurried off town-wards. He had
L1,000 packed away in his cigar-case, and the sooner he was free from
Beckstein the better he would be pleased. He came at length to the
offices of Messrs. Mossa and Mack, whose brass-plate bore the legend that
the gentry in questions were solicitors, and that they also had a
business in London. As David strode into the offices of the senior
partner that individual looked up with a shade of anxiety in his deep,
Oriental eyes.

"If you have come to offer terms," he said, nasally, "I am sorry--"

"To hear that I have come to pay you in full," David said, grimly; "L974
16s. 4d. up to yesterday, which I understand is every penny you can
rightfully claim. Here it is. Count it."

He opened the cigar-case and took the notes therefrom. Mr. Mossa
counted them very carefully indeed. The shade of disappointment was
still upon his aquiline features. He had hoped to put in execution
to-day and sell David up. In that way quite L200 might have been added
to his legitimate earnings.

"It appears to be all correct," Mossa said, dismally.

"So I imagined, sir. You will be so good as to indorse the receipt on the
back of the writ. Of course you are delighted to find that I am not
putting you to painful extremities. Any other firm of solicitors would
have given me time to pay this. But I am like the man who journeyed from
Jericho to Jerusalem--"

"And fell amongst thieves! You dare to call me a thief? You dare--"

"I didn't," David said, drily. "That fine, discriminating mind of yours
saved me the trouble. I have met some tolerably slimy scoundrels in my
time, but never any one of them more despicable than yourself. Faugh!
the mere sight of you sickens me. Let me get out of the place so that I
can breathe."

David strode out of the office with the remains of his small fortune
rammed into his pocket. In the wild, unreasoning rage that came over him
he had forgotten his cigar-case. And it was some little time before Mr.
Mossa was calm enough to see the diamonds winking at him.

"Our friend is in funds," he muttered. "Well, he shall have a dance for
his cigar-case. I'll send it up to the police-station and say that some
gentleman or other left it here by accident. And if that Steel comes back
we can say that there is no cigar-case here. And if Steel does not see
the police advertisement he will lose his pretty toy, and serve him
right. Yes, that is the way to serve him out."

Mr. Mossa proceeded to put his scheme into execution whilst David was
strolling along the sea front. He was too excited for work, though he
felt easier in his mind than he had done for months. He turned
mechanically on to the Palace Pier, at the head of which an Eastbourne
steamer was blaring and panting. The trip appealed to David in his
present frame of mind. Like most of his class, he was given to acting on
the spur of the moment.... It was getting dark as David let himself into
Downend Terrace with his latchkey.

How good it was to be back again! The eye of the artist rested fondly
upon the beautiful things around. And but for the sport of chance, the
whim of fate, these had all passed from him by this time. It was good to
look across the dining-table over venetian glass, to see the pools of
light cast by the shaded electric, to note the feathery fall of flowers,
and to see that placid, gentle face in its frame of white hair opposite
him. Mrs. Steel's simple, unaffected pride in her son was not the least
gratifying part of David's success.

"You have not suffered from the shock, mother?" he asked.

"Well, no," Mrs. Steel confessed, placidly. "You see, I never had what
people call nerves, my dear. And, after all, I saw nothing. Still, I am
very, very sorry for that poor young man, and I have sent to inquire
after him several times."

"He is no worse or I should have heard of it."

"No, and no better. And Inspector Marley has been here to see you
twice to-day."

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