“Is that so?” said MacIver gravely. “How did it happen, Miss Simpson?”
“In a way, sir, that reflects the gravest discredit on the police. I was returning from the Tube station late in the evening—I had been to a theatre—and as I reached the end of the road a taxi drew up beside me. At the time the road was deserted: as usual no adequate protection by the police was available against gangs of footpads and robbers. From the taxi stepped a man, and before I had time to scream, or even guess their fell intention, I was bundled inside by him and the driver—a handkerchief was bound round my mouth and another round my eyes and we were off.”
“You have no idea, of course, who the men were?” said MacIver.
“Absolutely none,” she remarked indignantly. “Do you imagine, sir, that I should number among my acquaintances men capable of such a dastardly act?”
“No one who knew you would ever be likely to abduct you,” agreed Drummond soothingly. “Er—that is, in such a violent manner, don’t you know. What I was going to say”—he went on hurriedly—“is what about the servants? Didn’t they start running round in circles when you failed to roll up?”
“That is one of the very points I wish to clear up,” she said. “Jane—I keep only one maid—had received a telegram only that morning stating that her mother in Devonshire was ill. So she had gone off, and there was therefore no one in the house. But that was three weeks ago. Surely she must have returned in that time, and if so, when she failed to find me here, why did she say nothing to the police?”
“An interesting point, Miss Simpson,” said MacIver, “and one that we will endeavour to clear up. However, let’s get on now with what happened to you. I hope these men used no unnecessary violence.”
“Beyond forcibly placing me in the car,” she conceded, “they did not. And I may say that during the whole period of my imprisonment I was treated very well.”
“Where did they take you?” demanded MacIver eagerly.
“I don’t know: I can’t tell you. It was a house in the country: that’s all I can say. It stood by itself amongst some trees—but I was blindfolded the whole way there. And when they brought me back this morning I was again blindfolded. They brought me as far as the Euston Road: whipped off the handkerchief from my eyes, pushed me out on the pavement, and then drove off at a furious rate. Now, sir, what is the meaning of this inconceivable treatment?”
“If you’ll come upstairs, Miss Simpson, you’ll understand,” answered MacIver. “The meaning of the whole thing is that you happened to be living in this house. And it wasn’t you they wanted: it was the house. Had you agreed to let it to that woman who called to see you, none of this would have happened.”
“But why did they want the house?”
“That’s why.”
MacIver stepped into the room where Drummond and I had interviewed the bogus invalid, and pointed to an opening in the wall.
“You knew nothing of that, of course?”
“Good Heavens! no.” She was staring at it in amazement. “What’s through on the other side?”
“The next house: Number 10.”
“And that’s been there all these years. Why! I might have been murdered in my bed.”
“It’s a carefully done job, MacIver,” said Drummond, and the detective nodded.
The wall of each room consisted of imitation oak boarding, and the opening was made by means of two sliding panels. The brickwork between them had been removed to form the passage, and the opening thus made crowned with a small iron girder. The two panels moved in grooves which had been recently oiled, and when closed it was impossible to notice anything unusual.
“A bolt-hole, Miss Simpson,” explained MacIver. “A bolt-hole, the existence of which was known to the gang that abducted you. And a bolt-hole is very useful at times. That’s why they wanted your house.”
“Do you mean to say that a gang of criminals has been living in my house?”
“That is just what I do mean,” said MacIver. “But I don’t think they are likely to return. If they intended to do so they wouldn’t have let you go. They lived here and they used the empty house next door. The thing I’m going to find out now is the name of your predecessor. Can you tell me the agent through whom you got this house?”
“Paul and Paul in the Euston Road.”
“Good. That saves time.”
“And now I shall be glad, sir, if you would kindly go,” she said. “I presume I may expect to hear in time that the police have a clue to account for my treatment. It would be too much to expect any more. But at the moment my house resembles a bear garden, and I would like to start putting it into some semblance of order—”
And then occurred a most embarrassing incident. It was so sudden and unexpected that it took us all by surprise, and it was over before anyone could intervene.
Drummond became lightheaded. We heard a dreadful noise from an adjoining room: he had burst into song.
