The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘He came just before dinner to our house at Dulwich. My brother and I are bachelors and we live there alone now, and he has been to dinner before. My brother questioned him and he made certain admissions which are almost incredible. The man must be mad.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I can’t tell you. Ernest is detaining him until you come.’
Mr. Reeder stepped into the car and in a few minutes they were flying across Westminster Bridge towards Camberwell. Lane House, an old-fashioned Georgian residence, lay at the end of a countrified road which was, he found, a cul de sac. The house stood in grounds of considerable size, he noted as they passed up the drive and stopped before the porch. Mr. Bracher alighted and opened the door, and Reeder passed into a cosily furnished hall. One door was ajar.
‘Is that Mr. Reeder?’ He recognised the voice of Ernest Bracher, and walked into the room.
The younger Mr. Bracher was standing with his back to the empty fireplace; there was nobody else in the room.
‘De Silvo’s gone upstairs to lie down,’ explained the lawyer. ‘This is a dreadful business, Mr. Reeder.’
He held out his hand and Reeder crossed the room to take it. As he put his foot on the square Persian rug before the fireplace, he realised his danger and tried to spring back, but his balance was lost. He felt himself falling through the cavity which the carpet hid, lashed out and caught for a moment the edge of the trap, but as the lawyer came round and raised his foot to stamp upon the clutching fingers, Reeder released his hold and dropped.
The shock of the fall took away his breath, and for a second he sprawled, half lying, half sitting, on the floor of the cellar into which he had fallen. Looking up, he saw the older of the two leaning over. The square aperture was diminishing in size. There was evidently a sliding panel which covered the hole in normal times.
‘We’ll deal with you later, Reeder,’ said Joseph Bracher with a smile. ‘We’ve had quite a lot of clever people here-’
Something cracked in the cellar. The bullet seared the lawyer’s cheek, smashed a glass chandelier to fragments, and he stepped back with a yell of fear. In another second the trap was closed and Reeder was alone in a small bricklined cellar. Not entirely alone, for the automatic pistol he held in his hand was a very pleasant companion in that moment of crisis.
From his hip pocket he took a flat electric handlamp, switched on the current and surveyed his prison. The walls and floor were damp; that was the first thing he noticed. In one corner was a small flight of brick steps leading to a locked steel door, and then:
‘Mr. Reeder.’
He spun round and turned his lamp upon the speaker. It was Margaret Belman, who had risen from a heap of sacks where she had been sleeping.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got you into very bad trouble,’ she said, and he marvelled at her calm.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Since last night,’ she answered. ‘Mr. Bracher telephoned me to see him and he picked me up in his car. They kept me in the other room until tonight, but an hour ago they brought me here.’
‘Which is the other room?’
She pointed to the steel door. She offered no further details of her capture, and it was not a moment to discuss their misfortune. Reeder went up the steps and tried the door; it was fastened from the other side, and opened inward, he discovered. There was no sign of a keyhole. He asked her where the door led and she told him that it was to an underground kitchen and coal-cellar. She had hoped to escape, because only a barred window stood between her and freedom in the ‘little room’ where she was kept.
‘But the window was very thick,’ she said, ‘and of course I could do nothing with the bars.’
Reeder made another inspection of the cellar, then sent the light of his lamp up at the ceiling. He saw nothing there except a steel pulley fastened to a beam that crossed the entire width of the cellar.
‘Now what on earth is he going to do?’ he asked thoughtfully, and as though his enemies had heard the question and were determined to leave him in no doubt as to their plans, there came the sound of gurgling water, and in a second he was ankle-deep.
He put the light on to the place whence the water was coming. There were three circular holes in the wall, from each of which was gushing a solid stream.
‘What is it?’ she asked in a terrified whisper.
‘Get on to the steps and stay there,’ he ordered peremptorily, and made investigation to see if it was possible to staunch the flow. He saw at a glance that this was impossible. And now the mystery of the disappearances was a mystery no longer.
The water came up with incredible rapidity, first to his knees, then to his thighs, and he joined her on the steps.
There was no possible escape for them. He guessed the water would come up only so far as would make it impossible for them to reach the beam across the roof or the pulley, the dreadful purpose of which he could guess. The dead must be got out of this charnel house in some way or other. Strong swimmer as he was, he knew that in the hours ahead it would be impossible to keep afloat.
He slipped off his coat and vest and unbuttoned his collar.
‘You had better take off your skirt,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Can you swim?’
‘Yes,’ she answered in a low voice.
He did not ask her the real question which was in his mind: for how long could she swim?
There was a long silence; the water crept higher; and then: ‘Are you very much afraid?’ he asked, and took her hand in his.
‘No, I don’t think I am,’ she said. ‘It is wonderful having you with me-why are they doing this?’
He said nothing, but carried the soft hand to his lips and kissed it.
The water was now reaching the top step. Reeder stood with his back to the iron door, waiting. And then he felt something touch the door from the other side. There was a faint click, as though a bolt had been slipped back. He put her gently aside and held his palms to the door. There was no doubt now: somebody was fumbling on the other side. He went down a step and presently he felt the door yield and come towards him, and there was a momentary gleam of light. In another second he had wrenched the door open and sprung through.
‘Hands up!’
Whoever it was had dropped his lamp, and now Mr. Reeder focused the light of his own torch and nearly dropped.
For the man in the passage was Mills, the exconvict who had brought the tainted letter from Dartmoor!
‘All right, guv’nor, it’s a cop,’ growled the man.
And then the whole explanation flashed upon the detective. In an instant he had gripped the girl by the hand and dragged her through the narrow passage, into which the water was now steadily overrunning.
‘Which way did you get in. Mills?’ he demanded authoritatively.
‘Through the window.’
‘Show me-quick!’
The convict led the way to what was evidently the window through which the girl had looked with such longing. The bars had been removed; the window sash itself lifted from its rusty hinges; and in another second the three were standing on the grass, with the stars twinkling above them.
‘Mills,’ said Mr. Reeder, and his voice shook, ‘you came here to “bust” this house.’
‘That’s right,’ growled Mills. ‘I tell you it’s a cop. I’m not going to give you any trouble.’
‘Skip!’ hissed Mr. Reeder. ‘And skip quick! Now, young lady, we’ll