The Hidden Enemy E-Book

T.C. Bridges

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Peter slowly rose to the top. He was in a blue twill suit, his brown shoes were old but well polished, and his soft gray hat looked like a hundred others. If someone tried to watch him, they would take him for a city clerk, enjoying a quiet walk to get that little fresh air that moved on this sinister hot night.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. A CRY FOR HELP

CHAPTER II. BLACKMAIL

CHAPTER III. BURGLARY

CHAPTER IV. PETER TAKES A JOB

CHAPTER V. THE QUARRY

CHAPTER VI. SAUCE FOR THE GOOSESAUCE FOR THE GOOSE

CHAPTER VII. A SHOT FROM THE DARK

CHAPTER VIII. NEWS FROM THE NORTH

CHAPTER IX. THUNDER OF WATERS

CHAPTER X. LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

CHAPTER XI. MAROONED

CHAPTER XII. NIGHT ON THE ISLAND

CHAPTER XIII. JUDITH IS JEALOUS

CHAPTER XIV. THE HOUSE IN THE LAURELS

CHAPTER XV. BILL GETS BUSY

CHAPTER XVI. CHRISTINE TAKES CHANCES

CHAPTER XVII. MURDER

CHAPTER XVIII. CHRISTINE TAKES CHARGE

CHAPTER XIX. POLICE

CHAPTER XX. "WAIT AND SEE"

CHAPTER XXI. ANNE BARNEY'S STORY

CHAPTER XXII. INTRODUCING GUY SCRAFFORD

CHAPTER XXIII. DIRK WARDEN WALKS

CHAPTER XXIV. LONELY ROADS

CHAPTER XXV. THE RIVALS MEET

CHAPTER XXVI. PRISONERS

CHAPTER XXVII. THE TIDE SWEEPS IN

CHAPTER I. A CRY FOR HELP

OUTSIDE Hampstead Tube Station Peter Hastings stood a moment looking up at the sky. Just as he had expected, the clouds hung heavy over the Heath and, as he watched, a flicker of sheet lightning contended with the electric lights which were beginning to gleam out below. It was past nine o’clock on a sultry July evening.

Peter walked slowly up the hill. He wore a blue serge suit, his brown shoes were old but well-polished and his soft grey-felt hat was just like a hundred others. If anyone had taken the trouble to watch him they would have taken him for a city clerk enjoying a quiet stroll to get what little fresh air was moving on this wickedly hot night.

Peter turned to the right and came presently into a region of big houses, each standing in its own walled garden. These roads were not so well lighted as the street he had left and the lightning which flickered along the ragged edges of the storm clouds overhead showed plainer than before. Peter reached a tall wall built of mellow, old bricks. The drive gates stood open and in the dim light he saw the drive bordered by thick rhododendrons, and behind them two rows of clipped yews. His clean-cut face hardened, and after one glance round to make sure that no one was in sight he stepped through the gate and instantly vanished into the shrubbery. As he stood, hidden beneath the thick shadow of the yews he found that his knees were trembling slightly.

“Natural, I suppose,” he said grimly. “I’ve heard of burglars dying of heart failure. I don’t know that I blame ’em.”

For long minutes he stood watching the house. The tall, straight Georgian front was in darkness. Not a light showed from any of the high, many-paned windows. In this yew-shadowed garden all was quiet. The only sound was a faint rumble of traffic from distant streets. Peter took a pair of old gloves from his pocket and drew them on, then went softly towards the house. The front was open, with a broad flower-bed between the wall and the gravel sweep, but to the right the solemn yews grew close to the house to which they gave their name. Yew Court it was called and the name suited the dim old place.

Not a sound came from the house as Peter approached a window, but that was as he had expected. Judith Vidal, the owner, was leaving for Cranham, her place in Herefordshire, next day, and had sent most of the servants on ahead. According to Peter’s information, there should be no one in the house but Mrs. Forrest, the deaf old housekeeper. Daisy Newton, Judith’s maid, had, he knew, gone out to keep tryst with her young man.

Peter slipped a long, flexible blade between the sashes and worked away. At last came a click. In the intense silence the small noise sounded loud as a pistol shot and with a quick breath Peter drew back into the shadow. Nothing happened, no dangerous light sprang into being and presently Peter came forward again, pushed open the window and clambered in over the sill.

Curtains hung across the window, and as he stood behind them he was still breathing faster than usual and was unpleasantly conscious that his forehead was damp with sweat. He shook his head angrily. The job was fool-proof. Then pushing aside the curtains he stepped out into the room.

It was dark but that did not matter. This had been his father’s study in those happy days which now seemed so long ago, and he knew every foot of it. Even the faint, musty scent from the old oak panelled walls was familiar. He took from his pocket a tiny electric torch, no bigger than a fountain pen, and switched it on. The thin pencil of light fell upon an unfamiliar carpet and on furniture he had never before seen, yet the room itself was the same. How well he remembered that queer beast, half bird, half dragon, carved on the marble mantel opposite! For a moment he stood quite still, memories crowding on him, then with an impatient movement of the head he shook himself free of the spell, and crossed softly to the door.

Switching off his torch, he cautiously turned the handle. The door opened quietly enough, but a board groaned beneath him as he stepped into the dark hall, and again he felt a nasty quiver run through him. It did not last. Those stones–he had to have them, and it was easy now. They were in the smoking-room to the right, and next moment he had opened that door, passed through and closed it behind him.

Again he switched on the torch and a thin, white beam circled the tall, handsome room. Yes, there was the book case on the north wall, just as it hat always been, the same tarnished gilt on the covers of the old volumes. Only they were not real books but just camouflage and the small keyhole of the safe was between Pohlman on Chess and Hawker’s Instructions to Sportsmen.

Peter drew the key from his pocket. Curious that he should have kept it all these years, but it was just the fact that he had done so which made his burglary possible. In fact, it was this which had made him first think of the way of getting even with those who had robbed him.

A tight-lipped smile crossed his face Judith Vidal’s emeralds would do something to set him on his feet again, though he felt that no amount of money could make up for the miseries he had endure during the past six months.

The key was actually in the lock, he was on the point of turning it when the silence of the old house was cracked by a scream. The scream of a woman in deadly pain or terror.

CHAPTER II. BLACKMAIL

QUEER how all the best in a man reacts to the cry of a woman in trouble! The next thing Peter knew he was out of the library and racing up t stairs. The scream had come from t drawing- room on the first floor. He burst into the big room to see a girl struggling in the arms of a man.

The girl was Judith Vidal. The tall slim figure, the marvellous hair black with just a tinge of red bronze, the exquisite, creamy complexion, and the long, rather narrow eyes with beautifully arched brows and long lashes–though Peter had never spoken to her, there was no mistaking the woman who had already been painted by three of the most famous artists of the day, and whose photograph had appeared in a hundred different papers.

The man, Peter had never seen before, but in his way he was almost as striking as the girl. Taller than Peter–and he was five foot ten–the stranger’s narrow waist and broad shoulders spoke of great physical strength, while his long face with its arched nose, high cheek-bones and dark, piercing eyes only needed a pointed beard to make him exactly like one of those Spanish grandees whose portraits hang in the National Gallery.

As the door crashed open the man released the girl and turned to meet the intruder.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demanded harshly. His very dark eyes glowed with anger and a muscle in his forehead twitched dangerously. All Peter’s nervousness had left him. He was of the type that are coolest in a tight place.

“Question’s a bit superfluous, isn’t it?” he remarked with a glance at Judith, and as he looked at her he became aware that she was gazing at him with a most extraordinary expression in her wonderful eyes. She might almost, he thought, have been looking at a ghost. The tall men came straight at him.

“Get out!” he ordered savagely.

“Am I to get out, Miss Vidal?” Peter asked easily. Judith recovered herself.

“No! No!” she cried. “It is Mr. Lanyon who must go, not you.”

Lanyon! Peter knew who he was now–Paul Lanyon had been Adam Vidal’s secretary. A bad hat if half he had heard was true. But there was no time to think of that for Lanyon’s fist was driving straight at Peter’s head.

Peter ducked and closed, flinging his arms round Lanyon’s body. He did this deliberately, for he had realised instantly that Lanyon had a much longer reach than he, and that he was a boxer. Peter himself could use his fists as well as the next man, but most of his fighting had been of the rough and tumble order. He back-heeled Lanyon and the two went to the floor together with a crash that shook the whole room. But the pile of the Eastern rug on which they fell was deep and soft. Neither took much harm and next instant they were fighting like wild cats.

Lanyon got his right arm free and drove a short blow into Peter’s jaw which jarred all his teeth into one great ache, but Peter retaliated with a smash which made a sad mess of Lanyon’s elegant nose. Mad with pain, Lanyon brought up his knee and tried to drive it into Peter’s groin, but Peter was too wily to be caught by such a trick, and, rolling over, sprang to his feet. Lanyon came up, too. If he had kept his head and boxed, the advantage was all his, but he was clean crazy, and instead of using his fists took a running kick at Peter.

A man who had spent six weeks in the fo’c’sle of a tramp steamer knows all about that sort of dirty fighting. In a flash Peter had hold of Lanyon’s right leg and lifted with all his might. Lanyon’s whole body rose in the air and he came down on the back of his head. This time it was not a rug that received him but the polished parquet floor. The sound was like that of a mallet striking wood, and Lanyon lay very still. Peter stood over him. He was breathing hard and blood was dripping from his split lip.

“H–have you killed him?” came Judith’s voice at his elbow.

“Killed him? No. He’s only knocked out.” Judith looked down at the man on the floor and it gave Peter a shock to see how she hated him. Then suddenly she turned to Peter.

“Will he be long like this?” she demanded.

Peter shrugged.

“Ten minutes perhaps. He got a tidy bump.”

“That will be time enough.” Judith was all eagerness. “You must tie him up, please and–and gag him.”

Peter stared.

“What for?” he blurted out.

“Oh, don’t wait. He might come round. It–it’s terribly important. Please–please do it at once.” She ran to the window and came back with two thick cords from the curtains. Peter still hesitated.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Judith went on, swiftly, “but he has something of mine which I must get back. Please–please don’t wait.”

“Sounds like good goods,” said Peter to himself, “and, anyhow, I’m in no position to refuse.” He took the cords, and made a good job of it. He finished by gagging Lanyon with the man’s own silk handkerchief. Judith stood watching.

“You are sure he is safe?” she asked, anxiously, as Peter rose from the floor.

“Safe as a pig in a net,” Peter told her.

“Then come with me, and I’ll tell you.” She led the way out of the big drawing room and across into a smaller room opposite. By the luxurious furnishing, it was her own boudoir. The first thing she did was to glance at the gilt, French clock on the mantel.

“Only eleven,” she said, and Peter noticed that she had recovered from her panic, and was quite cool and steady. “There is plenty of time. First, I will see to that Up of yours. It is badly cut.” She got water and a sponge, made Peter sit in an arm-chair, then cleaned the cut and strapped it up with a small strip of plaster. Her long, slim fingers were cool and capable, and, as she worked, a delicate and unusual scent filled Peter’s nostrils.

“Now tell me your name,” she commanded. It flashed across Peter’s mind that he would be wise to use an alias; yet somehow he could not do it.

“My name is Peter Hastings,” he said, and reddened slightly as he spoke.

“I always wondered what it was,” she said with a little smile which made her lovely face even more beautiful than before.

“How could you wonder?” asked Peter, bluntly. “You never saw me before.”

“Oh, but I have–at that dance at Singapore.”

“But I never saw you,” returned Peter, more puzzled than ever. He had been to more than one dance at Singapore, but he certainly had never seen Judith Vidal at any of them.

“I know,” said Judith, softly. “I was late, and you were just leaving.”

Peter let it go at that.

“About Lanyon. You were going to tell me,” he said; and her whole face changed and hardened.

“Yes, but, before I tell you, I want to know if you will help me.”

“Help you,” said Peter. “How do you know I am a fit person to help you?”

Judith looked at him. She noticed how shiny were the elbows and knees of his well-cut blue serge suit; how threadbare his collar; she saw that his shirt was of common grey flannel, and that his well- polished shoes were cracking across the toes. His face, too, was thinner than it should have been. She laid a hand on his arm.

“You have helped me once tonight,” she said. “You fought for me. You saved me. No one is more fit to help me than you.” Her vibrant voice sent an odd thrill through Peter. He looked her full in the face.

“You haven’t asked me how I came to be in your house this evening.”

Her eyes did not fall.

“That does not matter. I trust you Peter.”

“Then you shouldn’t,” he answered, harshly. “I came here to steal. I’m nothing but a burglar.”

Judith showed no sign of dismay.

“You are not a burglar. You have never stolen before. And if you came to steal tonight, you had some good reason.”

“Oh, I had reason,” said Peter, sharply; but Judith held up her hand.

“Never mind that now. You can tell me later. Will you steal for me? Will you help me to get back from Paul Lanyon the papers he has stolen from me?”

Peter whistled softly.

“So that’s his game–blackmail?” Again Judith’s beautiful face hardened.

“Listen to me, Mr. Hastings. My father was very good to me; yet since his death I have come to know that some of his ways of making money were not too scrupulous. Paul Lanyon, who was his secretary, stole certain letters which, if published, would blacken my father’s memory. For nearly a year past, ever since my father’s death, Lanyon has been trying to persuade me into marrying him; and when I told him frankly that I would not dream of doing so, he turned ugly.

“Tonight I was going out to dinner, but he telephoned me that he had something to show me, so I waited for him. The important thing was one of these letters. He told me in so many words that, if I would not promise to marry him, he meant to sell this and a number of other letters for publication. I grew angry–indeed, I lost my temper, completely, and told him exactly what I thought of him. Then he seized me–” she paused with a shudder. “I hardly dare think what might have happened if you had not come to my help. It was rather a brave thing for a burglar to do,” she ended softly.

Peter got red again. This girl knew exactly how to play on his feelings. Besides, so the thought struck him, she was not responsible for her father’s sins, and he owed her something for the sportsmanlike way in which she had taken his confession.

“All right,” he said briefly. “I’ll help.” Then he paused uncomfortably. “Only I think you’ll have to give me some food first. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Sorry,” he added grimly as he saw the look of shocked surprise on Judith’s face, “I–” But she would not let him explain.

“Come with me,” she ordered, and quickly led the way downstairs.

Supper had been laid in the dining room. There was cold consommé, chicken salad, a game pie, trifles and jellies, food of a kind that Peter had not even set eyes on for months past Judith helped him herself, but before he began to eat made him drink a glass of sherry. There was something curiously dream-like to Peter in sitting in this luxurious room, being waited on by this lovely girl, while with every mouthful he felt fresh strength come back to his starved body. Twenty minutes later when he rose from the table, he felt a new man.

“I’m ready now,” he told Judith. “But you will have to tell me where I am to go and what I have to get.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Judith “Will you find Lanyon’s keys while get out the car?”

CHAPTER III. BURGLARY

THE threatened storm had broken a Judith drove the car down the Hampstead-road. Rain was falling in torrents and the streaming streets were almost deserted. Judith turned to Peter.

“He didn’t like your taking his keys?” she said.

“If you’d seen his face,” replied Pete grimly, and Judith nodded.

“I know,” was all she said, but Pete noticed that she shivered slightly.

“Where does he live?” he asked.

“He has a flat in Penton-street, off Victoria-street.”

“Do you know the place?”

“Yes, I have been there to tea.”

“Then you have some idea where the letters are hidden.”

“Not much,” she confessed.

“We ought to have brought him with us,” said Peter, but she shook her head. “Out of the question. How could I have got him past the porter?”

“Made out he was tight,” said Peter. “No!” Judith’s voice was emphatic. “You don’t realise how dangerous man he is, Mr. Hastings. Somehow he would have beaten us.”

“Oh, I realise that all right. He’s nasty piece of goods.”

Judith shuddered again.

“He’s a horror. Oh, how lucky it was for me that you came when you did!”

“I came after your emeralds,” Peter reminded her in a dry voice.

Judith’s eyes flashed.

“I don’t care what you came after, an you are welcome to my emeralds or anything else I have got. If you get back those letters for me I shall be in your debt all my life.”

She turned the car to the left, and presently they were running down Portland Place. Here there was more traffic, but the rain was still coming down in torrents and all who could had remained under shelter. Judith drove with great skill and in another five minutes they were out of the swirl of taxis and buses and ha turned into a quiet back street in Westminster.

Judith pulled up in front of a tall flat fronted building, and Peter opened the door and jumped out. She had found light waterproof for him before starting and she herself had a long wrap over he evening dress. The hall porter, who was sitting reading behind his little desk came forward.

“Will you take us up to Mr. Lanyon’ flat?” Judith asked him.

“He’s out, miss.”

“I know,” said Judith brightly. “He is staying the night at Hampstead am we have come for his things. He gave us his keys.”

“Very good, miss,” replied the unsuspecting porter, and led the way to the lift. He took them to the second floor.

“It’s Number 7, miss,” he said. “I must go down again, but will you ring–when you are ready?”

Peter unlocked the door and stood aside for Judith to enter. The flat was small, just sitting-room, bedroom and bathroom but it was luxuriously appointed. Furniture, rugs, pictures–all were good of their kind. A large American roll-top desk stood against the wall, and Judith at once made for this, but Peter checked her.

“Isn’t there a safe? There’s a key here which looks like a safe- key. He’d never keep letters like those in a desk.”

“I never saw a safe,” Judith said. Peter made a hasty search and, presently found the safe in the bedroom. It was let into the wall and hidden by a small bookshelf. He opened it without trouble to see two shelves filled with neatly docketed bundles of paper. Judith flung herself on her knees in front of the open safe and began to turn over the papers swiftly. Presently a little cry of delight escaped her.

“Here they are.” She held up a bundle of perhaps a dozen letters market “A.V.”

“Look through them, then burn them at once,” Peter advised her. “But first be sure that those are all. Meantime, I had better pack a suitcase. We must have that for the porter’s sake.”

He found a suitcase, stuffed a few things into it, and by the time he had finished, so had Judith.

“There are no more,” she told him “But how are we going to burn these? The fires are electric.”

“In the basin,” Peter answered as he lifted out the water jug and struck a match. One by one, the letters were crumpled and burned. The last was just flaring into grey ash when the electric bell tingled sharply.

“Who is it?” asked Judith, going rather white. Peter leaped for the safe, and closed and locked it. He beckoned Judith, to return to the sitting-room, picked up the suit-case, and followed her, closing the bedroom door behind him. Then he opened the outer door.

The man who stood in the hall was a stranger. He was a swarthy man, who wore a dark mackintosh and a soft, black felt hat. He stared at Peter with hard brown eyes.

“Where’s Mr. Lanyon?” he inquired.

“He’s away for the night,” Peter answered.

“Who are you?” the other asked, harshly.

“I might ask you the same question,” said Peter, returning the swarthy man’s stare.

“And I’d tell you I’m Mr. Lanyon’s man, and I want to know what you’re doing in his rooms this hour of the night.”

“Oh, you’re his man, are you?” said Peter, in quite a different tone. “My name is Hastings, and this is Miss Vidal, Mr. Lanyon is not very well, and is staying the night at Hampstead. He asked us to fetch his things.” He held out the suitcase. “Here they are,” he added, with a smile. There was no answering smile on the other’s face.

“Ill, is he? He was all right when he left here. What’s the matter with him?”

Peter kept his temper.

“I really don’t know. Nothing worse, I think, than a bilious attack. Would you like to come with us and see him?”

The dark-faced man hesitated.

“I suppose it’s all right,” he said, at last. “No. I ain’t coming all that way.”

“Good-night, then,” said Peter, calmly, and stood aside for Judith to pass.

Once out in the passage he hurried her to the lift. Luckily, it came at once; but they were hardly down before they heard steps rattling on the stairs above.

“Give the porter half a crown,” Peter whispered to Judith, and Judith, who had kept her head admirably, found the money for the man who took the suit-case and carried it to the car.

“Hi! Stop them!” came a shout, but Judith was already pressing the starter, and the car, still warm, shot away up the street.

“Nasty-looking chap,” said Peter.

“Horrid,” agreed Judith, with a shiver. “But you were splendid, Mr. Hastings. The calm way you talked to him! It was wonderful.”

Peter moved uneasily. He hated praise of this kind.

“What do you mean to do with Lanyon?” he asked.

“Get rid of him as quickly as possible. Thanks to you he can do no more harm.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said Peter. “He’s not going to take this lying down.”

An uneasy look crossed Judith’s face.

“Perhaps you are right,” she answered slowly. “But don’t talk now. Wait till we get home.”

The rain had stopped by the time they reached Yew Court, and in the garden the warm air was rich with the scent of wet earth. Judith drove the car into the garage and let herself and Peter in with her latch-key.

“Your maid–” asked Peter. “Is she about?”

“Daisy. I told her to go to bed,” Judith answered.

Peter kept silence. He did not wish to give the girl away, but he sincerely hoped she was in bed. He certainly did not want her to see Lanyon leaving the house at this hour.

He and Judith went straight up to the drawing-room. Lanyon lay on the floor just where they had left him. His dark eyes burned with a sullen fire that made Peter think of a trapped wolf. Peter stood over the prisoner.

“Lanyon, if I untie you, will you go quietly?”

Fury was in Lanyon’s face as he glared up at the door, but Peter kept very calm.

“It’s no use looking like that, Lanyon,” he said. “We’ve drawn your teeth. If you’re going to raise a row you’ll stay here till morning. If you are ready to go quietly move your head.” Lanyon nodded, and Peter at once took off the gag and cut him loose.

Lanyon came to his feet slowly, and Peter saw he was too stiff and cramped to be dangerous. But he was not in the least prepared for what was to follow. Holding with one hand to the back of a chair Lanyon turned to Judith.