The Datchet Diamonds Page 14

  CHAPTER XIV

  AMONG THIEVES

  Cyril was vaguely conscious of the touch of some one's hand aboutthe region of his throat; not of a soft or a gentle hand, but of aclumsy, fumbling, yet resolute paw. Then of something falling on tohim--falling with a splashing sound. He opened his eyes, heavily,dreamily. He heard a voice, speaking as if from afar.

  "Hullo, chummie, so you ain't dead, after all?--leastways, not as yetyou ain't."

  The voice was not a musical voice, nor a friendly one. It was harshand husky, as if the speaker suffered from a chronic cold. It was thevoice not only of an uneducated man, but of the lowest type ofEnglish-speaking human animal. Cyril shuddered as he heard it. Hiseyes closed of their own accord.

  "Now then!"

  The words were accompanied by a smart, stinging blow on Mr. Paxton'scheek, a blow from the open palm of an iron-fronted hand. Severethough it was, Paxton was in such a condition of curious torpor thatit scarcely seemed to stir him. It induced him to open his eyes again,and that, apparently, was all.

  "Look here, chummie, if you're a-going to make a do of it, make a doof it, and we'll bury you. But if you're going to keep on living, moveyourself, and look alive about it. I ain't going to spend all my timewaiting for you--it's not quite good enough."

  While the flow of words continued, Cyril endeavoured to get thespeaker's focus--to resolve his individuality within the circuit ofhis vision. And, by degrees, it began to dawn on him that the man was,after all, quite close to him: too close, indeed--very much too close.With a sensation of disgust he realised that the fellow's face wasactually within a few inches of his own--realised, too, what anunpleasant face it was, and that the man's horrible breath wasmingling with his. It was an evil face, the face of one who had grownprematurely old. Staring eyes were set in cavernous sockets. A month'sgrowth of bristles accentuated the animalism of the man's mouth, andjaw, and chin. His ears stuck out like flappers. His forehead receded.His scanty, grizzled hair looked as if it had been shaved off close tohis head. Altogether, the man presented a singularly unpleasantpicture. As Paxton grasped, slowly enough, how unpleasant, he becameconscious of a feeling of unconquerable repulsion.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  His voice did not sound to him as if it were his own. It was thin, andfaint like the voice of some puny child.

  "Me?" The fellow chuckled--not by any means in a way which wassuggestive of mirth. "I'm the Lord Mayor and Aldermen--that's who Iam."

  Paxton's senses were so dulled, and he felt so stupid, that he wasunable to understand, on the instant, if the fellow was in earnest.

  "The Lord Mayor and Aldermen--you?"

  The man chuckled again.

  "Yes; and likewise the Dook of Northumberland and the Archbishop ofCanterbury. Let alone the Queen's own R'yal physician, what's beenspecially engaged, regardless of all cost, to bring you back to life,so as you can be killed again."

  The man's words made Cyril think. Killed again? What had happened tohim already? Where was he? Something seemed suddenly to clear hisbrain, and to make him conscious of the strangeness of hissurroundings. He tried to move, and found he could not.

  "What's the matter? Where am I?"

  "As for what's the matter, why, there's one or two things as is thematter. And, as for where you are, why, that's neither here nor there.If I was you, I wouldn't ask no questions."

  Mr. Paxton looked at the speaker keenly. His eyesight was improving.The sense of accurate perception was returning to him fast. Theclearer his head became, the more acutely he realised that somethingbeyond the normal seemed to be weighing on his physical frame, and toclog all the muscles of his body.

  "What tricks have you been playing on me?"

  The man's huge mouth was distorted by a mirthless grin.

  "There you are again, asking of your questions. Ain't I told yer, nothalf a moment since, that if I was you I wouldn't? I've only beenhaving a little game with you, that's all."

  The man's tone stirred Paxton to sudden anger. It was all he could doto prevent himself giving utterance to what, under the circumstances,would have been tantamount to a burst of childish petulance. He triedagain to move, and immediately became conscious that at least theupper portion of his body was sopping wet, and he was lying in whatseemed to be a pool of water.

  "What's this I'm lying in?"

  For answer the man, taking up a pail which had been standing by hisside, dashed its contents full into Cyril's face.

  "That's what you're lying in--about eighteen gallons or so of that; asnice clean water as ever you swallowed. You see, I've had to give youa sluicing or two, to liven you up. We didn't want to feel, after allthe trouble we've had to get you, as how we'd lost you."

  The water, for which Mr. Paxton had been wholly unprepared, and whichhad been hurled at him with considerable force, had gone right intohis eyes and mouth. He had to struggle and gasp for breath. Hisconvulsive efforts seemed to amuse his assailant not a little.

  "That's right, choke away! A good plucked one you are, from what Ihear. Fond of a bit of a scrap, I'm told. A nice little job they seemto have had of it a-getting of you here."

  As the fellow spoke, the events of the night came back to Cyril in asudden rush of memory. His leaving the hotel, flushed with excitement;the glow of pleasure which had warmed the blood in his veins at theprospect of meeting Daisy laden with good tidings--he remembered itall. Remembered, too, how, when he had scarcely started on his quest,some one, unexpectedly, had come upon him from behind, and how a clothhad been thrown across his face and held tightly against his mouth--awet cloth, saturated with some sticky, sweet-smelling stuff. And howit had dragged him backwards, overpowering him all at once with asense of sickening faintness. He had some misty recollection, too, ofa cab standing close beside him, and of his being forced into it. Butmemory carried him no further; the rest was blank.

  He had been kidnapped--that was clear enough; the cloth had beensoaked with chloroform--that also was sufficiently clear. Theafter-effects of chloroform explained the uncomfortable feeling whichstill prostrated him. But by whom had he been kidnapped? and why? andhow long ago? and where had his captors brought him?

  He was bound hand and foot--that also was plain. His hands were drawnbehind his back and tied together at the wrists, with painfultightness, as he was realising better and better every moment. He hadbeen thrown on his back, so that his whole weight lay on his arms.What looked like a clothes line had been passed over his body,fastened to a ring, or something which was beneath him, on the floor,and then drawn so tightly across his chest that not only was itimpossible for him to move, but it was even hard for him to breathe.As if such fastenings were not enough, his feet and legs had beenlaced together and rendered useless, cords having been wound roundand round him from his ankles to his thighs. A trussed fowl could nothave been more helpless. The wonder was that, confined in such bonds,he had ever been able to escape the stupefying effects of thechloroform--even with the aid of his companion's pail of water.

  The room in which he was lying was certainly not an apartment in anymodern house. The floor was bare, and, as he was painfully conscious,unpleasantly uneven. The ceiling was low and raftered, and black withsmoke. At one end was what resembled a blacksmith's furnace ratherthan an ordinary stove. Scattered about were not only hammers andother tools, but also a variety of other implements, whose use he didnot understand. The place was lighted by the glowing embers of a fire,which smouldered fitfully upon the furnace, and also by a lamp whichwas suspended from the centre of the raftered ceiling--the glass ofwhich badly needed cleaning. A heavy deal table stood under the lamp,and this, together with a wooden chair and a stool or two, was all thefurniture the place contained. How air and ventilation were obtainedPaxton was unable to perceive, and the fumes which seemed to escapefrom the furnace were almost stifling in their pungency.

  While Paxton had been endeavouring to collect his scattered senses, sothat they mi
ght enable him, if possible, to comprehend his situation,the man with the pail had been eyeing him with a curious grin.

  Paxton asked himself, as he looked at him, if the man might not besusceptible to the softening influence of a substantial bribe. Hedecided, at any rate, to see if he had not in his constitution such athing as a sympathetic spot.

  "These ropes are cutting me like knives. If you were to loosen them abit you would still have me tied as tight as your heart could desire.Suppose you were to ease them a trifle."

  The fellow shook his head.

  "It couldn't be done, not at no price. It's only a-getting of yer usedto what's a-coming--it ain't nothing to what yer going to have, lor'bless yer, no. The Baron, he says to me, says he, 'Tie 'em tight,' hesays, 'don't let's 'ave no fooling,' he says. 'So as when the Toff'sa-ready to deal with him he'll be in a humbler frame of mind.'"

  "The Baron?--the Toff?--who are they?"

  "There you are again, a-asking of your questions. If you ask questionsI'll give you another dose from this here pail."

  The speaker brandished his pail with a gesture which was illustrativeof his meaning. Paxton felt, as he regarded him, that he would havegiven a good round sum to have been able to carry on a conversationwith him on terms of something like equality.

  "What's your name?"

  "What!"

  As, almost unconsciously, still another question escaped Mr. Paxton'slips, the fellow, moving forward, brandished his pail at arm's lengthabove his shoulders. Although he expected, momentarily, that theformidable weapon would be brought down with merciless force upon hisunprotected face and head, Paxton, looking his assailant steadily inthe eyes, showed no signs of flinching. It was, possibly, this whichinduced the fellow to change his mind--for change it he apparentlydid. He brought the pail back slowly to its original position.

  "Next time you'll get it. I'm dreadful short of temper, I am--can'tstand no crossing. Talk to me about the state of the nation, or theprice of coals, or your mother-in-law, and I'm with you, but questionsI bar."

  Paxton tried to summon up a smile.

  "Under different circumstances I should be happy to discuss with youthe political and other tendencies of the age, but just at present,for conversation on such an exalted plane, the conditions can scarcelybe called auspicious."

  Up went the pail once more.

  "None of your sauce for me, or you'll get it. Now, what's the matter?"

  The matter was that Paxton had closed his eyes and compressed hislips, and that a suggestive pallor had come into his cheeks. The painof his ligatures was rapidly becoming so excruciating that it was asmuch as he could do to bear it and keep his senses.

  "These ropes of yours cut like knives," he murmured.

  Instead of being moved to pity, the fellow was moved to smile.

  "Like another pailful--hot or cold?"

  It was a moment or two before Paxton could trust himself to speak.When he did it was once more with the ghastly semblance of a smile.

  "What a pleasant sort of man you seem to be!"

  "I am that for certain sure."

  "What would you say to a five-pound note?"

  "Thank you; I've got one or two of them already. Took 'em out of yourpocket, as you didn't seem to have no use for them yourself."

  While Paxton was endeavouring, seemingly, to grasp the full meaning ofthis agreeable piece of information, a door at the further end of theroom was opened and some one else came in. Paxton turned his head tosee who it was. It was with a sense of shock, and yet, with aconsciousness that it was, after all, what he might have expected,that he perceived that the newcomer was the ill-favoured associate ofMr. Lawrence, towards whom he had felt at first sight so strong anaversion. He was attired precisely as he had been when Paxton had seenhim last--in the long, loose, black overcoat and the amazingly hightall hat. As he stood peering across the room, he looked like somegrotesque familiar spirit come straight from shadowland.

  "Well, my Skittles, and is our good friend still alive--eh?"

  The man with the pail thus addressed as Skittles grinned at Paxton ashe answered.

  "The blokey's all right. Him and me's been having a little friendlytalk together."

  "Is that so? I hope, my Skittles, you have been giving Mr. Paxton alittle good advice?"

  The man with the curious foreign accent came, and, standing by Cyril'sside, glowered down on him like some uncanny creature of evil origin.

  "Well, Mr. Paxton, I am very glad to see you, sir, underneath thishumble roof--eh?"

  Paxton looked up at him as steadily as the pain which he was enduringwould permit.

  "I don't know your name, sir, or who you are, but I must request youto give me, if you can, an explanation of this extraordinary outrageto which I have been subjected?"

  "Outrage--eh? You have been subjected to outrage? Alas! It is hard,Mr. Paxton, that a man of your character should be subjected tooutrage--not true--eh?"

  "You'll be called to account for this, for that you may take my word.My absence has been discovered long ago, and I have friends who willleave no stone unturned till they have tracked you to your lair."

  "Those friends of yours, Mr. Paxton, will be very clever if they trackme to what you call my lair until it is too late--for you! You have mypromise. Before that time, if you are not very careful, you will bebeyond the reach of help."

  "At any rate I shall have the pleasure of knowing that, for your sharein the transaction, you'll be hanged."

  The German-American shrugged his shoulders.

  "Well, perhaps. That is likely, anyhow. It is my experience that,sooner or later, one has to pay for one's little amusements, as, Mr.Paxton, you are now to find."

  Paxton's lips curled. There was something about the speaker'smanner--in his voice, with its continual suggestion of a sneer, abouthis whole appearance--which filled him with a sense of loathing towhich he would have found it impossible to give utterance in words. Hefelt as one might feel who is brought into involuntary contact with anunclean animal.

  "I don't know if you are endeavouring to frighten me. Surely you areaware that I am not to be terrified by threats?"

  "With threats? Oh, no! I do not wish to frighten you with threats.That I will make you afraid, is true, but it will not be withthreats--I am not so foolish. You think that nothing will make youafraid? Mr. Paxton, I have seen many men like that. When a man isfresh and strong, and can defend himself, and still has hopes, ittakes a deal, perhaps, to make him afraid. But when a man is helpless,and is in the hands of those who care not what he suffers, and he hasundergone a little course of scientific treatment, there comes a timewhen he is afraid--oh, yes! As you will see. Why, Mr. Paxton, what isthe matter with you? You look as if you were afraid already."

  Paxton's eyes were closed, involuntarily. Beads of sweat stood uponhis brow. The muscles of his face seemed to be convulsed. It was asecond or two before he was able to speak.

  "These cords are killing me. Tell that friend of yours to loosenthem."

  "Loosen them? Why, certainly. Why not? My Skittles, loosen the cordswhich give Mr. Paxton so much annoyance--at once."

  Skittles looked at the Baron with doubtful eyes.

  "Do you mean it, Baron?"

  The Baron--as the German-American was designated by Skittles--burst,without the slightest warning, into a frenzy of rage, which, althoughit was suggested rather than expressed, seemed to wither Skittles,root and branch, as if it had been a stroke of lightning.

  "Mean it?--you idiot! How dare you ask if I mean it? Do as I say!"

  Skittles lost no time in doing his best to appease the other's anger.

  "You needn't be nasty, Baron. I never meant no harm. You don't alwaysmean just exactly what you says--and that's the truth, Baron."

  "Never you mind what I mean at other times--this time I mean what Isay. Untie the ropes which fasten Mr. Paxton to the floor--the ropesabout his hands and his feet, they are nothing, they will do very wellwhere they are. A change of position will do him g
ood--eh? Lift him upon to his feet, and stand him in the corner against the wall."

  Skittles did as he was bid--at any rate, to the extent of unfasteningthe cords, which, as it were, nailed Paxton to the ground. The reliefwas so sudden, and, at the same time, so violent, that before he knewit, he had fainted. Fortunately, his senses did not forsake him long.He returned to consciousness just in time to hear the Baron--

  "My Skittles, you get a pail of boiling water, so hot it will bringthe skin right off him. It's the finest thing in the world to bring aman out of a faint--you try it, quick, you will see."

  Paxton interposed, feebly--just in time to prevent the drasticprescription being given actual effect.

  "You needn't put your friend to so much trouble. I must apologise forgoing off. I was never guilty of such a thing before. But if you hadfelt as I felt you might have fainted too."

  "That is so--not a doubt of it. And yet, Mr. Paxton, a little timeago, if I had told you that just because a cord was untied you wouldfaint, like a silly woman, you would have laughed at me. It is thesame with fear. You think that nothing will make you afraid. Myfriends, and myself, we will show you. We will make you so afraidthat, even if you escape with your life, and live another fifty years,you will carry your fear with you always--always--to the grave."

  The Baron rubbed his long, thin, yellow hands together.

  "Now, my Skittles, you will lift Mr. Paxton on to his feet, and youwill stand him in the corner there, against the wall. He is very wellagain, in the best of health, and in the best of spirits, eh? Ourfriend"--there was a perceptible pause before the name wasuttered--"Lawrence--you know Mr. Lawrence, my Skittles, very well--isnot yet ready to talk to our good friend Mr. Paxton--no, not quite,yet. So, till he is ready, we must keep Mr. Paxton well amused, isthat not so, my Skittles, eh?"

  Acting under the Baron's instructions, Skittles picked up Mr. Paxtonas if he had been a child, and--although he staggered beneath theburden--carried him to the corner indicated by the other. When Cyrilhad been placed to the Baron's--if not to his own--satisfaction, theBaron produced from his hip-pocket a revolver. No toy affair such asone sees in England, but the sort of article which is found, andcommonly carried, in certain of the Western states of America, andwhich thereabouts is called, with considerable propriety, a gun. Thisreally deadly weapon the Baron proceeded to fondle in a fashion whichsuggested that, after all, he actually had in his heart a tendernessfor something.

  "Now, my Skittles, it is some time since I have had practice with myrevolver; I am going to have a little practice now. I fear my hand maybe a trifle out; it is necessary that a man in my position shouldalways keep it in--eh? Mr. Paxton, I am going to amuse you verymuch indeed. I am a pretty fair shot--that is so. If you keep quitestill--very, very still indeed--I do not think that I shall hit you,perhaps not. But, if you move ever so little, by just that little youwill be hit. It will not be my fault, it will be yours, you see. I amgoing to singe the lobe of your left ear. Ready! Fire!"

  The Baron fired.

  Although released from actual bondage to the floor, Mr. Paxton wasstill, to all intents and purposes, completely helpless. His handsremained pinioned. Cords were wound round his legs so many times, andwere drawn so tightly, that the circulation was impeded, and withoutsupport he was incapable of standing up straight on his own feet. Hehad no option but to confront the ingenious Baron, and to suffer himto play what tricks with him he pleased. Whatever he felt he sufferedno signs of unwillingness to escape him. He looked his tormentor inthe face as unflinchingly as if the weapon which he held had been apopgun. Scarcely had the shot been fired than, in one sense, if not inanother, he gave the "shootist" as good as he had sent.

  "You appear to be a braggart as well as a bully. You can't shoot abit. That landed a good half-inch wide of my left ear."

  "Did I not say I fear my hand is a little out? Now it is your rightear which I will make to tingle. Ready! Fire!"

  Again the Baron fired.

  So far as one was able to perceive, his victim did not move by so muchas a hair's breadth, yet there was a splash of blood upon his cheek.

  "Now I will try to put a bullet into the wall quite close to the rightside of your throat. Ready! Fire!"