The Death Whistle

— III —

— III —THE BOX

Beyond doubt Mr. Swire had, in his time, been in some curious situations. He was a man with a history, so the thing was certain. The probability is, therefore, that he was not an easy man to take by surprise. That on that occasion he was surprised is undeniable. He had all the outward marks and signs of amazement in the superlative degree. The muscles of his face were twitching as if he were suffering from St Vitus’ dance; his mouth seemed to be opening and shutting of its own accord.

“So you weren’t asleep?”

The fact that, under the circumstances, he should have regained the faculty of speech so quickly as he did was creditable to his presence of mind, and showed how wide his experience must have been. True, his voice was a little tremulous, and he showed a tendency to stutter. Still, what he said was understandable.

“It’s – it’s His Highness!”

‘His Highness’ was the nickname by which Bruce had been known in jail, and had reference to his appearance, deportment, and such fragments of his story as were known – or guessed at.

“And you were lying when you told me that you had still some time to serve?”

“Never said it. What I said was that I still had lots to do. So I had – pretty nearly four and twenty hours. I came away from home this morning – same as you did. Only it seems that they let you out extra early. But we aren’t all persons of importance, and that’s where it is.” Bruce returned to his original position.

“So you weren’t asleep?”

Swire grinned. He was rapidly becoming his normal self.

“Well, I can’t say I was – exactly. When the cove told you to see what I was up to, I thought that there might be going to be some interesting conversation. So when you came and had a look, of course I was as sound as a baby. Bound to be when I knew it would oblige.”

“And you heard?”

“Not all; – bits here and there; – about enough.”

There was silence. They looked each other in the face. Swire spoke next.

“You take your hands from off me. Perhaps you don’t know your scrunching up my shoulder-blades.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Now that’s just the question I was going to put to you.”

“You know what I am doing.”

“And you know what I am doing, so we’re even.”

“I see – that’s it. The further question arises – what shall I do with you?”

“You take your hands off – that’s what you’ll do with me.” Instead of answering Bruce transferred one hand to the other’s throat; gripping it in such fashion that the man’s jaw dropped open and continued motionless, as if suddenly paralysed. Apparently he made an effort to remonstrate, but his utterance was choked; to struggle, but his limbs merely twitched, as if they belonged to some lay figure. The grip became firmer and firmer, until Mr. Swire’s countenance assumed a very unpleasant appearance indeed. When it was relaxed he fell backwards on to the ground like a log, remaining motionless as one. Bruce stopped to look at him.

“He’s not dead, but he’s as near to death as it would be wise to bring him.”

From about the neck, which he had just been holding in such a close embrace, he took a coloured handkerchief. With it he tied its owner’s legs together. From a jacket pocket he took a second, using it to tie his hands behind his back. Then he turned his attention to other matters.

“So he did find the landmark, and he’s started digging with a pocket knife. If Edney’s box of treasures is any size, it would have taken him some time to dig it out with that. Yet with such a blade it ought to be a useful knife. He might have tried it upon me if I had given him a chance.” Something touched him on the face. It was a drop of rain. “It’s coming, is it? I thought it wasn’t far off.” All at once the rain descended with torrential violence. “It begins to occur to me that I’m going to get wet. There’s one comfort – it’s likely to save me from further disturbance.”

He laughed beneath his breath, as if the whole business was a joke.

“In a matter of this sort, method’s desirable. The first thing to do is to cut out a square of turf, which can be replaced so as to show as little sign of disturbance as possible. And for that purpose Swire’s knife will come in handy.”

Working rapidly, cutting out a thick slab of turf, he laid it, intact, upon one side. With his trowel he loosened the earth which its removal had made accessible, using his hands to shovel it out. The pelting rain, seeming to drain it into the hole, turned it into mud as he went on.

“I ought to have got down nearly three feet. Let’s hope Edney’s three didn’t mean four; this is becoming awkward.” The depth to which he had attained, and the nature of the tools with which he was working, necessitated his lying flat on his stomach on the soaking grass. “I’ll probe for it.” Using Swire’s knife as a probe he thrust it into the ground nearly as far as it would go – until its further ingress was prevented by some hard substance.

“That feels like metal. We will trust it is. It oughtn’t to take me long to get as far as that.” As he was resuming work Swire evinced signs of returning consciousness. He lay five or six feet from the open hole. Even at that short distance only his outline was visible in the prevailing darkness. Odd sounds came from him; then groans; then words, and with words, bad language.

“Where am I? – What are you playing at? – What’s happened? – Who the—?”

Then came the torrent of bad language. Without saying a word, with the man’s own knife Bruce cut off a thick tuft of grass. Moving towards him, just as he was in the very midst of a flood of expletives, Bruce crammed the grass into his mouth. It served as an effective gag. The man might writhe and twist, and he did, but he could not rise to his feet; his own handkerchiefs bound him too adroitly; nor could he make himself heard. Picking him up indifferently, as if he were some inanimate log, Bruce bore him back into the drive, a distance of perhaps two hundred yards. Depositing him by the fence of one of the plantations, his face against the woodwork, he left him, still without a word.

Then he returned to his labour. A few seconds later he was lifting out of the hole which he had made what seemed to be a metal box.

“Then Edney wasn’t lying – which seems to show that the ruling passion is not always strong in death – unless the point of the jest is still to come, and his treasure box contains nothing Worth the finding.”

He crammed back into the hole as much of the soil as he could. Replacing the slab of turf, he strode off with the box in his hand; – apparently oblivious of Mr. Sam Swire, lying on the sodden ground, bound and speechless, in the darkness, the wind, and the pelting rain. He glanced at his watch.

“Nearly ten. Clarence Gate will be closed. It will have to be Sheen.”

He passed through Sheen Gate unobserved. Covering the ground at the rate of a good five miles an hour, he returned to Dulverton Road. On the lonely road, at that time, in that weather, he did not meet a soul. The downpour never slackened. As he neared his destination he thought of the condition he was in.

“If they see me they’ll wonder what sort of lodger they’ve got hold of; what I’ve been doing, where I’ve been. Which little matters I might find it difficult to explain. Perhaps Mrs. Ludlow’s latchkey will enable me to get to cover before I’m scented; – they won’t see me.”

The latchkey did him the service he desired. By its aid he slipped into the house and into his bedroom before anyone was conscious of his presence. Hardly was he in his room when someone rapped at the panel. Mrs. Ludlow’s voice was heard.

“Would you like any supper, sir? You didn’t say before you went out, so I left something on the table in case you might.”

“Thank you, but I’ve had all that I require. I’m wet and rather tired, so I think I’ll tumble in.”

He did not “tumble in” quite so soon as his words – spoken from behind the cover of the locked door – suggested. First of all he placed himself before the looking-glass. The figure he presented seemed to afford him amusement – though it was probably as well that he had not been seen on his entrance, and that the road along which he had come was a lonely one. No one could have encountered him unawares without being struck by his appearance; and wondering; and asking questions. It was not unlikely that food for cogitation would have been provided by the answers received. He was soaked to the skin, his clothes being glued to his person as if he had just emerged from a long sojourn in the water. They were in an indescribable state of dirt. He wore a dark grey suit of Harris tweed, which served as an excellent foil to the stains of the reeking sandy turf on which he had been lying. His hands were caked with mud; it grimed his face, matted his beard. As he regarded himself in the mirror he laughed beneath his breath – which seemed to be a trick to which he was addicted.

“It’s eminently desirable that there should be something worth having in Edney’s treasure box; because this suit is clearly done for, and I’ve only a frocker to take its place; and with a frock-coat one can hardly wear a bowler, even if this bowler can ever be worn again.”

He undressed himself; washed; scrubbed himself with towels. It was an indifferent substitute for a bath, yet luxury compared to the methods of ablution to which he had become accustomed at Canterstone. Then, in nondescript garb, he tackled his find.

It was a box, about nine inches by six, apparently made of thin sheets of rolled iron. Probably originally it was japanned; there were traces here and there of what might have been japan; but now it was so eaten by rust that, save where the metal was still obscured by fragments of dirt, it was all a dull red.

“The key would be no use even if I had it; the lock’s a wreck. And rust has riveted the lid to the body of the thing.” He shook it. No sound proceeded from within.

“If it were empty! that would be the crowning jest. The question is, how to prise it open?”

It was a work of time, but he did get it open at last – with the aid of Mr. Swire’s knife, his own digging fork and trowel, and, it should be added, Mrs. Ludlow’s fire-irons, which served as levers. When it was open the reason why nothing had been audible when the box was shaken became obvious; the interstices left by the contents had been packed with cotton-wool, – which had become rusty, like the receptacle in which it was contained. Mr. Edney had meant that nothing should be heard.

“A thoroughgoing man, that benefactor of mine. May his dishonest bones rest in peace! He evidently did his best to keep his treasures in condition.”

The contents proved to be of a varied kind. Turning them out upon the bed, disentangling them from the rusty cotton-wool in which they were enveloped, Bruce examined them one by one. The first article on which he lighted had on him somewhat the effect of a cold douche. It was a portrait; a woman’s photograph; “cabinet” size; a half-length. She was seemingly between thirty and forty years of age, and was in evening-dress; – as is the custom of a certain type of woman, who loves to attire herself in her splendours, merely for the sake of photographic reproduction. She wore a ‘picture’ hat; had two necklaces round her throat; ornaments in her hair; an anchor-shaped brooch in the bosom of her dress. Not a bad-looking woman; a trifle thin-lipped; and with some peculiarity in the shape of her nose which seemed almost to amount to a twist.

“Who is it, I wonder? – wife or sweetheart? or somebody else’s sweetheart? – It’s an unexpected find, and unwelcome – suggesting complications. From what I saw of him, one would hardly have associated Edney with a woman; – but one never knows. I hope, for your sake, madam, and for mine, that we shall never meet, or there may be trouble. More trouble. – What’s this at the back? – The photographer’s name – ‘Rayner, Birchester.’ – Birchester? That’s where it all took place. So it would seem that if I want to know something about you, madam, I have only to inquire at that address. But, as it chances, I do not want to know anything. I prefer to know nothing. Still, I’ll keep your photograph, lest, someday, it may be required for reference. And yet – all sorts of unexpected disagreeables might arise from a trifle of this sort. Anyhow, for the present we’ll put you by.”

He next picked up a cheque-book, containing a hundred blank cheques – “to order” – drawn on the Strand branch of the National Bank.

“Cheques are all very well, given a balance; but without a balance, dangerous – in certain hands. As one or two gentlemen in Canterstone Jail seem to have found. Is there a balance in our favour at the Strand branch of the National Bank?”

It appeared that there was, if one might judge from the evidence of a pass-book, which was his third discovery. It was endorsed, on the plain parchment cover, in a bold round hand: “Francis Smithers, Esq.”

“Smithers? – Francis Smithers? – I don’t care for the name myself; but still, if there is a solid balance at the back of it – a balance, if you’re credited with it under any name, is sweet, especially when it finds you with a fortune of less than three pounds sterling.”

The pass-book contained but a single entry. That was on the credit side – “By cash, £1000.” It was attached to a date nearly seven years old. Bruce stared. After such a preface the blank pages seemed to have a singular eloquence.

“Mr. Edney was really not such a liar as one might have supposed – £1000, bearing no interest, not drawn upon for seven years – the National Bank must feel that it has got rather a good thing. That’s the sort of account that any bank would like to have. – What have we here?”

In the flap were two papers. One was a printed form on which the same institution acknowledged the receipt of £5000 on deposit, to bear interest at the rate of 2 3/4% until further notice. The date was the same as that on which the drawing account had been opened. The second was a half-sheet of notepaper, on which was written, in a crabbed legal hand, “Address given, Cosmopolitan Hotel, Charing Cross.”

“I see. So at the Strand branch of the National Bank, Francis Smithers, Esquire, has a thousand pounds, on which he can draw at sight; and five thousand pounds, on which he can draw at seven days’ notice. The latter sum has been bearing interest. I presume the rate has varied with the Bank rate. Assuming it to have averaged two and a half per cent., then there should be standing to his credit, in the shape of interest, something like another thousand pounds. Very pretty indeed. – And at the time these two accounts were opened he was residing at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. A highly respectable address. I had his word for it that he did not put in a personal appearance in the matter – yet it seems unnatural to have arranged a transaction of this sort through the post. I wonder. The bank people must have imagined that they had an oddity in the way of a client. So they had. One hears a good deal about bankers’ unclaimed balances. Do they fancy they’ve got a haul in this little lot? If so, they’ll be disillusioned when I appear upon the scene. And yet – it’s not all plain sailing. – Next, please.”

The next was a blank envelope. In it was a document issued by the Shoe Lane Safe Deposit Company, by which, in consideration of a certain sum of money received on a date this time nearly eight years old, they conveyed to Francis Smithers, Esquire, for a term of 99 years, one of their safes, to wit, No. 226. Accompanying this document was a tiny key of ingenious construction, to which was attached a tag inscribed, “Key of safe.” There was also another half-sheet of notepaper on which was written, in a plain flowing hand, “Francis Smithers.” Above it was the superscription, “My signature.”

“The key at last; the Open Sesame which is, or is not, to unlock the door to all these riches. As the dear man correctly said, the signature’s the essential thing. With it, one’s sufficiently in the dark. Without it, where would one be? He vowed that I should find it easy; it doesn’t look difficult, the sort of running hand they teach at school. As he was good enough to hint, I’m tolerably deft with a pen. Its presence here suggests that this is not his usual calligraphy; and that it was therefore the part of wisdom to keep a copy, to jog his memory, in case he himself should forget how he wrote his name. He seems to have had an eye for all eventualities, save one – a prison deathbed. I wonder what’s in safe No. 226. That, at any rate, I should have no difficulty in learning. I’ve the receipt – the key; they can hardly refuse me access to my very own safe, mine own for 99 years. He was a far-sighted man; did he expect to live to enjoy his possession for the whole of his term? Now what remains?”

There remained a letter – case in which there were twenty five-pound notes, not numbered consecutively, and many of them well worn, and a chamois leather bag containing fifty sovereigns.

“Something tangible at last. It is highly possible that this may be worth more to me than all the rest put together. I have this. I haven’t that, and never may have. A man may keep himself alive for some time on £150; while, although Open Sesame does open the door, it may be that it is only to find destruction awaiting one on the other side.”

Collecting the various articles, he contemplated them in the mass. Then, taking up the woman’s photograph, he subjected it to a further examination.

“I like this least of Mr. Edney’s treasures. I should have been obliged to him if he hadn’t put it in the box. It’s too suggestive. Who is she? What’s she doing in this galley? Has she a right to be here? He said he had no friends, and preferred to die in prison rather than trust himself to their tender mercies if he had any; that’s a fact. She mightn’t have been his friend although – theoretically – ‘a nearer one still, and a dearer one.’ That sort of thing depends upon circumstances, and upon one’s point of view. But in that case, where do I come in? I think I should like to know something about the lady; and yet – perhaps not. Confound the woman! I’ve a mind to burn her. But before I proceed to that extremity I’ll sleep on it. Anyhow, don’t let me blink at the situation. Let me look it straight in the face. These are the fruits of felony; the spoils of a sneaking swindler and a constitutional thief. If I avail myself of them, I sink to his level. I’ve been in trouble, but am I prepared to do that?”

Picking up the wash-leather bag he jingled its contents.

“That’s eloquent music to a man who has less than three sovereigns between him and a return to jail. I’m afraid that I may not prove altogether impervious to temptation. Men refuse to act as trustees; but I’m not sure that I shall refuse to act as heir, even to a swindler of the very first water. But I’ll sleep upon it all.”

And he did, soundly, as if conscience did not trouble him. He was asleep almost as soon as he was between the sheets. But possibly that was because such a bed as Mrs. Ludlow’s was a luxury to which he had been strange for a considerable space of time.