“Tell the policemen I want them to come in,” she said. “Here is the key—catch!”
One of the officers caught the key deftly.
“Anything wrong, miss?” he asked, knowing her.
“I think somebody has come into the house whilst my maid went out to post a letter. You left the door open, did you, Lucretia?”
“Yes, miss, I did,” confessed the agitated Lucretia. “I forgot to take the key.”
“Well, hurry—” she began.
At that moment all the lights in the room went out.
She sat on the sill and swung out her legs, her eyes fixed on the door, which was visible in the light of a street standard. A faint creaking sound came to her ears and she saw the door move slightly—the bolt was straining under some enormous pressure. Then a voice from the pavement below hailed her.
“The street door won’t open, miss,” said the policeman’s voice.
She looked back at the door. The slot of the bolt was giving under the strain.
“Can you catch me?” she asked.
The two men ran to the pavement beneath her.
“Jump!”
Again she looked back. At that moment, with a crash, the door opened. She had a dim vision of two stunted figures, then, bracing her hands on the sill, she jumped.
It was not a dignified landing, but for the moment Leslie Maughan was less interested in her dignity than her safety. A crowd had already gathered, attracted by the unusual happening, and there appeared from nowhere an inspector of police, a resourceful man who, having heard the story, immediately stopped an omnibus and ordered the driver to bring his big machine on to the sidewalk immediately beneath the window. Standing on the rail of the bus, one of the policemen reached the windowsill and climbed inside, and was followed by the inspector. There was no sound of the struggle which the morbid crowd expected. A few minutes later the door below was unbolted and Leslie and the trembling Lucretia went into the passage.
They found the hall window on the first landing wide open. A police whistle buzzed in the street; in a very short time the block would be surrounded.
“No, they haven’t cut the wire, as far as I can see,” said the inspector, examining the wall of the passage with his lamp. “Where do you keep your fuse-box?”
“I think it is near the door,” said the girl.
It proved to be within easy reach. The flat had been darkened by the simple expedient of removing the fuses. They found them intact on the floor and replaced them, and an inspection was possible. Except for the broken door, no damage had been done to the flat. Whoever the intruders were, their time had been too short to conduct a search of the room. The drawers of the desk were untouched.
“They hadn’t much time, had they?” said the puzzled inspector. “I can’t understand this job—if they were ordinary burglars they would have cleared just as soon as they knew you had spotted them.”
Half an hour later, and before the police had departed, Mr. Coldwell came on the scene. By this time every roof and yard in the vicinity had been searched; night watchmen had been aroused from their surreptitious sleep, and a small army of police detectives had examined every window that might afford a possible means of escape. But no sign of the intruders was discovered.
“I don’t like this,” said Leslie.
Mr. Coldwell shook his head.
“You’ll have to find other lodgings for a while. Tomorrow you had better transfer your belongings and Lucretia to my house at Hampstead.”
For five minutes he discussed in a low voice the theories he had formed, the plans he had made.
“I don’t think it is necessary to leave a policeman in the house,” he said at last, and a little yellow man, curled up on the top of the high bureau in Leslie’s room, screened from observation by the old-fashioned friezes of the wardrobe, was relieved.
He heard the policeman go clattering down the stairs, and after a while:
“Just phone me if you’re at all nervous, Leslie—good night.”
Coldwell’s voice sounded from the hall; there was the slam of a door—the little yellow man, who spoke and understood English very well, did not smile to himself, because he was of a race that seldom smile.
Leslie came into her bedroom with a yawn, gathered her sleeping things and disappeared into the bathroom. The listener heard the sound of running water, heard her bid a reassuring good night to the tremulous servant, and then the door of the bedroom opened and closed, the light was extinguished, there was the creak of a bed, and after a while the sound of deep, regular breathing.
For an hour the yellow man lay, not moving a muscle, and then, reaching up, he caught hold of the wooden moulding, testing its strength, and was satisfied. He felt the long, queer-shaped knife that was in his belt, running his thumb along the edge, before he gripped it between his teeth and, with the agility of a cat, and supported only by his sinewy fingers, drew himself clear of the wardrobe, and dropped noiselessly on to the carpet.
The wardrobe hardly creaked as he moved; save for the soft pad of his bare feet and the breathing of the sleeper, there was no sound. Holding the knife lightly in his right hand, he groped along the pillow with his left, ready to pounce upon and strangle the scream before it rose.
There was no head on the first pillow, none on the right—the bed was empty. He straightened himself up quickly, half-turned as he heard a sound from behind him, but it was too late. An arm of steel flung round his throat, the knife hand was gripped at the wrist and twisted so sharply that the weapon fell to the floor.
“I want you!”
