“I found it in a crack in the wall, sir,” said the man. “It had been pushed in hard.”
MacIver’s eyes had narrowed, and without a word he pointed to the corner of the handkerchief. Clearly visible through the blood were two small black letters. And the letters were R. G.
VI
In Which We Get a Message from Robin Gaunt
Robin Gaunt! It was his blood-soaked handkerchief that lay in front of us. He too had been thrown into the same cellar where we had spent the night. And where was he now?
I picked up the handkerchief, and a sudden wave of bitterness swept over me. I pictured him, wounded—perhaps dying—scrawling his message down there in the darkness, whilst outside men said vile things about him and papers fanned the flame.
“Your super-vivisector, Inspector,” I remarked. “It’s damned well not fair.”
“But just at present it’s necessary, Mr. Stockton,” he answered. “By Jove! if only that handkerchief could speak! 3 P 7 A N T … What on earth was he trying to write?”
He turned and went briskly out of the room.
“Show me exactly where you found it,” he said to his subordinate.
We all trooped after him, and by the light of an electric torch we explored the cellar. The officer pointed to the crack in the wall where he had found the handkerchief, and to the dark stains just below and on the floor.
“I’m thinking,” said Drummond gravely, “that the poor devil was in a pretty bad way.”
Torch in hand MacIver was carrying out his examination systematically. An opening in one wall led to a smaller cellar, and it was there that three other spraying cisterns, similar to the one upstairs, were standing. They differed in small details, but their method of action was the same. In each design there was a pump for producing the necessary pressure, and a small stopcock at the end of the spraying pipe which allowed the jet of liquid to be turned on or off at will.
The main points of difference lay in the arrangement of the straps for securing the reservoirs to the shoulders, and the shape and size of the reservoirs themselves. Also the rubber piping varied considerably in length in the different models.
“Take these upstairs,” said MacIver to the officer, “and put them alongside the other one.”
Once more he resumed his examination, only to stop abruptly at the startled exclamation that came from his man. He was standing at the top of the cellar steps tugging at the door.
“It’s locked, sir,” he cried. “I can’t make it budge.”
“Locked!” shouted MacIver. “Who the devil locked it?”
“It’s been locked from the other side, and the key is not in the keyhole.”
MacIver darted up the steps, and switched his torch on to the door.
“Who came in last?” he demanded.
“I did,” said Toby Sinclair. “And I left the door wide open. I can swear to it.”
In a frenzy of rage the Inspector hurled himself against it, but the result was nil.
“Not in a hundred years, Mac,” said Drummond quietly. “No man can open a door as stout as that at the top of a flight of stairs. You can’t get any weight behind your shoulder.”
“But, damn it, man,” cried the other, “we haven’t been down here ten minutes. Whoever locked it must be in the house now.”
“Bexton is there too, sir,” said the officer. “He was exploring upstairs.”
“Bexton!” bellowed the Inspector, through the keyhole. “Bexton! Lord! is the man deaf? Bexton—you fool: come here.”
But there was no answer.
“Steady, MacIver,” said Drummond, “you’ll have a rush of blood to the head in a minute. He’s possibly up at the top of the house, and we’ll get him as soon as he comes down. No good getting needlessly excited.”
“But who has locked this door?” demanded the other. “That’s what I want to know.”
“Precisely, old lad,” agreed Drummond soothingly. “That’s what we all want to know. But before we have any chance of knowing, we’ve got to get to the other side. And since we can’t blow the blamed thing down there’s no good going on shouting. Let’s have a look at it: I’m a bit of an authority on doors.”
He went up the stairs, and after a brief examination he gave a short laugh.
“My dear Mac—short of a crowbar and a pickaxe we’re stung. And since we’ve none of us got either in our waistcoat pockets there’s no good worrying. The bolt goes actually into the brickwork: you can see it there. And the lock on the door has been put on from the other side, so a screwdriver is no good.”
He came down again laughing.
“I can’t help it—I like these people. They are birds after my own heart. They’ve bitten us properly, and got away with their expensive set of uppers and lowers completely intact. I shall sit down and ruminate on life, and if anyone feels strong enough to massage my neck, I shall raise no objections. Lord! what a game we’ll have when I meet gorse bush again.”
He lit a cigarette, and deposited himself on the floor with his back against the wall.
“Mac, if that’s our only means of illumination you’d better switch it off. We may want it later—you never know.”
“Bexton must be down in a moment or two,” said the Inspector angrily.
“True,” answered Drummond. “Unless he’s down already.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that there are some people knocking about in this district who are no slouches in the sandbag game. And I should think it was quite on the cards that the worthy Bexton has already discovered the fact.”
“If that’s the case we’re here for hours.”
“Just so,” agreed Drummond. “Which is all the more reason for preserving that air of masterly tranquillity which is the hallmark of the Anglo-Saxon in times of stress. Men have won prizes ranging from bullseyes to grand pianos for sentiments less profound than that. We are stung, Mac: we are locked in, and we shall remain locked in until some kindly
