“The cave man method is fairly beastly, even when the cave man does his own kidnapping. When he sends an anthropoid ape to do his dirty work, it passes into another category.”
The man’s eyes were invisible now; his face had grown a deeper hue.
“So that’s your line, is it?” he said. “I thought you were a pal.”
“I’m not responsible for your illusions,” said Michael. “Only I tell you this”—he tapped the man’s chest with his finger—“if any harm comes to Adele Leamington that is traceable to you or your infernal agent, I shan’t be contented with shooting Mr. Bhag; I will come here and shoot you! Do you understand? And now you can tell me, what is the meaning of that scream I heard from your tower?”
“Who the hell do you imagine you’re cross-questioning?” spluttered Penne, livid with fury. “You dirty, miserable little actor!”
Michael slipped a card from his pocket and put it in the man’s hand.
“You’ll find my title to question you legibly inscribed,” he said.
The man brought the card to the table-lamp and read it. The effect was electrical. His big jaw dropped, and the hand that held the card trembled so violently that it dropped to the floor.
“A detective?” he croaked. “A—a detective! What do you want here?”
“I heard somebody scream,” said Michael.
“One of the servants, maybe. We’ve got a Papuan woman here who’s ill: in fact, she’s a little mad, and we’re moving her tomorrow. I’ll go and see if you like?”
He looked toward Michael as though seeking permission. His whole attitude was one of humility, and Michael required no more than the sight of that pallid face and those chattering teeth to turn his suspicion to certainty. Something was happening in this house that he must get to the bottom of.
“May I go and see?” asked Penne.
Michael nodded. The stout man shuffled out of the room as though he were in a hurry to be gone, and the lock clicked. Instantly Michael was at the door, turned the handle and pulled. It was locked!
He looked round the room quickly, and, running to one of the windows, flung back the curtain and pulled at the shutter. But this, too, was locked. It was, to all intents and purposes, a door with a little keyhole at the bottom. He was examining this when all the lights in the room went out, the only illumination being a faint red glow from the fire.
XIII
The Trap That Failed
And then Michael heard a faint creak in one corner of the room. It was followed by the almost imperceptible sound of bare feet on the thick pile carpet, and the noise of quick breathing.
He did not hesitate. Feeling again for the keyhole of the shutter, he pulled out his pistol and fired twice at the lock. The sound of the explosion was deafening in the confined space of the room. It must have had an electrical effect upon the intruder, for when, with a wrench, the shutter opened, and at a touch the white blind sprang up, flooding with light the big, ornate room, it was empty.
Almost immediately afterwards the door opened through which the baronet had passed. If he had been panic-stricken before, his condition was now pitiable.
“What’s that? What’s that?” he whimpered. “Did somebody shoot?”
“Somebody shot,” said Michael calmly, “and I was the somebody. And the gentlemen you sent into the room to settle accounts with me are very lucky that I confined my firing practice to the lock of your shutter, Penne.”
He saw something white on the ground, and, crossing the room with quick strides, picked it up. It was a scarf of coarse silk, and he smelt it.
“Somebody dropped this in their hurry,” he said. “I guess it was to be used.”
“My dear fellow, I assure you I didn’t know.”
“How is the interesting invalid?” asked Michael with a curl of his lip. “The lunatic lady who screams?”
The man fingered his trembling lips for a moment as though he were trying to control them.
“She’s all right. It was as I—as I thought,” he said; “she had some sort of fit.”
Michael eyed him pensively.
“I’d like to see her, if I may,” he said.
“You can’t.” Penne’s voice was loud, defiant. “You can’t see anybody! What the hell do you mean by coming into my house at this hour of the morning and damaging my property? I’ll have this matter reported to Scotland Yard, and I’ll get the coat off your back, my man! Some of you detectives think you own the earth, but I’ll show you you don’t!”
The blustering voice rose to a roar. He was smothering his fear in weak anger, Michael thought, and looked up at the swords above the mantelpiece. Following the direction of his eyes, Sir Gregory wilted, and again his manner changed.
“My dear fellow, why exasperate me? I’m the nicest man in the world if you only treat me right. You’ve got crazy ideas about me, you have indeed!”
Michael did not argue. He walked slowly down the passage and out to meet the first sector of a blazing sun. As he reached the door he turned to the man.
“I cannot insist upon searching your house because I have not a warrant, as you know, and, by the time I’d got a warrant, there would be nothing to find. But you look out, my friend!” He waved a warning finger at the man. “I hate dragging in classical allusions, but I should advise you to look up a lady in mythology who was known to the Greeks as Adrastia!”
And with this he left, walking down the drive, watched with eyes of despair by a pale-faced girl from the upper window of the tower, whilst Sir Gregory went back to his library and, by much diligent searching, discovered that Adrastia was another name for Nemesis.
Michael was back at the Dower House in time for breakfast. It was no great tribute to his charm that his absence
