Shadow of Doom (5 page)

 

The pain receded, but the fear did not.

The man at the desk said: ‘I don't believe you, Lumsden, and I will give you one more chance. Palfrey wanted you to join him in an expedition. Where is it to?'

‘He didn't say anything about an expedition,' said Lumsden, in a quavering voice. ‘It's no use pretending that he did, he didn't; I—no! No!' he screamed, for the men closed on him from either side.

They gave him no rest.

The ordeal lasted for no more than five minutes, but to Charles it seemed like hours. He hardly knew where they hit him, whether it was with their fists or with weapons; he felt pain in his arms, in his head, in his legs, his chest, his stomach.

At last it stopped.

He was not standing when they had finished, but was on his knees in front of the desk, clutching it, looking up into that hideous, blank black mask, sobbing, hardly aware of any particular pain. There was pain everywhere about his body, he was parched, he felt his tongue swollen against his teeth, he could not get to his feet when he tried. He did not know what he looked like; he could feel that his hair had fallen over his eyes, but could not find the strength to brush it aside. The only sound in the room was that of his heavy breathing.

His questioner said, quite calmly:

‘Where did Palfrey ask you to go, Lumsden?'

Charles clenched his hands, tried to get up, sank down on his knees again.

‘Tell me,' said the man at the desk, and the voice was soft and yet menacing. ‘You will
really
get hurt if you lie to me again.'

Charles said, ‘He didn't—he didn't—he didn't mention
any
place!'

He expected the men to attack him again, but they did not. He could not see them now, except when he turned his head. The pause which followed gave him a little more confidence. With a great effort he got to his feet and rested his hands on the desk, supporting himself with his wrists. He was near enough to the black mask to snatch it off –

‘To snatch it off, to snatch it off!' The words were like a refrain in his mind. If he stretched out his hand he could snatch it off, snatch it off.

‘I will give you one more chance,' repeated the man. ‘Palfrey put a proposition to you. He told you where he was thinking of going. Tell me about it.'

‘There—there isn't anything to tell!' cried Charles.

They set upon him again …

He was a helpless, hopeless wreck when they had finished, but he was no longer afraid: it was impossible to be afraid because he could not feel more pain than he already did. There was only one emotion in his mind – anger. Blazing anger against them, hatred which was a little short of madness. He was on his knees again, with his head bowed, he was clenching his teeth to prevent himself from crying out. There were tears in his eyes: he could hardly see out of them, but he kept them open and kept looking at that mask. If only he could tear it off!

‘Now come along, Lumsden,' said the man.

Lumsden said nothing. He doubted whether he could have uttered words even had he tried. He made no attempt to get up. He did not look up. He expected another onslaught, but it did not seem to matter greatly.

‘Lumsden,' said the man again.

Lumsden stayed with his head bowed.

He heard movement, and shrank away. He felt hands at his arms, but this time they held him firmly and did not belabour him. He was led out of the room. The bright light of the passage hurt his eyes. He opened them only because he thought the men were going to take him downstairs, but they took him along a passage and into another room. There the light was subdued. That was all he noticed at first. They put him into a chair, and he sat there, helpless but at ease – or as much as his bruised body would allow. He did not move. He did not notice the men leave him.

Afterwards he considered it the most remarkable incident of this incredible adventure.

The door opened.

It was some time after he had been brought in here, for he was able to lift his head, and through a mist of tears and through the strands of hair in his eyes he saw a girl. She was young. There was nothing remarkable about her looks; she was just a pleasant-looking fair-haired young girl of twenty or so, in a plain grey dress which became her. There was sadness in her eyes as she approached him, and she said: ‘I am so very sorry.'

‘Please,' said Lumsden, in a croaking voice. ‘Don't say that, please.'

‘I know what you are feeling,' she said.

She sounded so sad, and the expression in her eyes seemed to indicate what she really felt. She moved behind him. He heard the sound of a tap turned on, and running water, and the clink of a tin or something hard against a bowl.

‘Come along,' she said, unexpectedly.

She was by his side, helping him up. He did not think he would have tried to stand for anyone but her. He made an effort, and she steadied him. He had to lean against her, and she was surprisingly sturdy. She led him to a hand-basin, filled with water. There were bandages on a table by it, lint, adhesive plaster, other oddments of first aid and a large sponge. She pulled up an upright chair and made him sit down. Then she draped a towel about his shoulders, tucked it inside his coat collar, and began to sponge his face, after brushing the hair back with gentle fingers. The sponge was impregnated with an antiseptic, and it stung, yet it had a soothing effect almost at once, and he did not resent it.

She squeezed the sponge into the bowl, and he was surprised to see it coloured red. Blood, of course.

She sponged him again, using a little more pressure, then told him to sit still while she dried his face with a hand-towel of some soft, fluffy material. It was soothing and refreshing. Then she took a comb and combed his hair back; that was soothing, too.

‘I
must
look a mess!' he muttered.

‘I have seen worse,' she said.

That did not strike him as odd at first, but a little later he realised what it implied. For the moment he raised his head and looked into the splash-back mirror.

He
did
look a mess.

Both his eyes were swollen, and there was a cut over one of them, still bleeding a little but not enough to worry about. There was another cut on his right cheek, which was also puffy, red and blue. There were scratches on his neck and his forehead, and there was a cut on his lip; that was bleeding more than any of the others. The girl came forward and dabbed it gently with a small sponge. He looked up at her, trying to smile.

‘You're very good,' he said.

‘I—I want to help,' she said, ‘but there is so little I can do.' There was another emotion besides sadness in her eyes now; a hint of fear. She looked over her shoulder. The she tiptoed to the door and stood listening with her ear pressed close to the keyhole, which was placed high so that she only had to stoop slightly. She came back, slowly, soft-footed.

‘I thought I heard someone,' she said. ‘They won't let me lock the door.'

‘I don't understand you,' said Lumsden.

‘Please!' she said. ‘Don't talk so loudly; you can never be sure who is in the next room.' Yes, the fear was there as well as sadness.

‘I think we can put some plaster on now,' she said, and with her cool, deft fingers she patched him up.

‘What did you mean when you said you'd seen worse?' he asked. He whispered, keenly aware of her warning.

‘It has happened to others,' she said.

‘But why—why do
you
stay?'

‘I can't help myself,' she said. There seemed tragedy in the helpless shrug of her shoulders and the hopeless tone of her voice. ‘I have to do as I am told. I am a qualified nurse, and useful to them.'

‘Who are they?' he asked.

‘I am not going to tell you,' she said. ‘It would only lead to more trouble, and if they found out that I'd told you—well, I don't know what would happen.' Her smile was tremulous.

For the first time he studied her closely. She was certainly not good-looking, and ‘pretty' didn't describe her, but there was a touching softness about her face. Her complexion was good, although rather pale, and her eyes were violet in colour. Her mouth was small but full, her nose was also rather small.

‘Don't try to press me,' she said, ‘I can't tell you anything. But—I know they want to learn something from you.'

‘But I've nothing to tell them!' he cried.

‘Hush! They might hear you!'

‘I'm sorry,' he muttered. ‘I can't make myself realise that we're in their house.' ‘Their' house – ‘they' – why wouldn't she tell him more about them? How was it possible for them to frighten her and make her do whatever they wished?

‘Why did they let you patch me up?' he asked, suddenly. It had seemed strange before, but he had not thought of asking her. ‘It seems crazy.'

‘Nothing they do is crazy,' said the girl.

‘Well,
this
is.'

‘It isn't,' she insisted. ‘They'll keep you here for tonight, perhaps, or else they might take you to her if they think you're feeling reasonably well.'

‘To her?' he asked, dazedly.

‘Yes. She—' The girl paused, looked over her shoulder again, and, after a moment of tense silence, went on in a voice so low that he could hardly hear her. ‘She is very lovely, she will be very friendly and—and kind. You see, they know that they can't make you talk by hurting you, they'll try the other way now. It's happened before.'

‘It's the most fantastic business I've ever heard of!' declared Charles.

‘I suppose it is,' she said. ‘If things that do happen can be called fantastic. I shouldn't warn you, but—if she asks questions don't answer her. If you've managed to keep something back, don't tell her—on no account tell her—because she will immediately go to them and repeat what you have said. They're not interested in you, but only in what you can tell them.'

‘I can't tell them a thing,' he said.

He felt a little mean saying that to her. He would probably have told her all that Palfrey had told him but for her fear that they might be overheard. That would be disastrous. He had come through so much, he was warned about the next attempt they would make, he mustn't take a false step now. But he was greatly tempted to confide in her. She made it so clear that she knew at what cost he had kept so silent.

She smiled, gently.

‘You're quite right not to tell me,' she said softly. ‘You mustn't tell anyone,
especially
her. You've been so brave.'

‘But I know nothing,' he muttered. It was like a refrain in his mind, like the absurd fancy at one time that he could snatch off the mask of the man at the desk. It had become an automatic response – he knew nothing, he must tell no one, not even this girl, because they might be overheard.

‘That's right,' she said warmly. ‘Make yourself say that, don't admit anything at all.'

He said: ‘You don't seem to believe me.' It sounded weak, his voice was querulous, and he felt anxious to talk about something else – about her. ‘Why do you stay? They can't force you against your will.'

‘They can,' she said. ‘My mother—'

She broke off, and there were tears in her eyes. At great discomfort, he leaned forward and gripped her hand. She forced the tears back. She raised her head, and took her hand away.

‘I prefer not to talk about it,' she said. ‘I can do a little, as I am doing for you.'

‘It's incredible!' said Charles. ‘I can't believe there have been others.'

‘There have!' For the first time her voice was sharp. ‘Don't underestimate them, that would be foolish. They know all the beastly tricks, they've had plenty of practice. I—' She broke off again, and the fear came back. ‘Hush!' she enjoined.

At first he could hear nothing; and then he heard faint sounds of movement. He thought at first they were in the passage, then he realised that they were in the next room. There were voices, but he could not distinguish what was said. He thought a man and a woman were in there.

The girl's face hardened. She stood up quickly and pushed the chair further away, stepped to the wash-basin and began to collect the first-aid equipment. In a low voice, she said: ‘Don't let them think I've said anything.'

He was not able to speak to her again, for the door opened and a man came in. It was a shock that he was not wearing a black mask. He was dark-skinned, good-looking and well dressed. He was also tall and thin, and Charles thought at first that he was the man who had questioned him, but this voice was entirely different, deeper, slower, that of an educated Englishman, without a trace of accent.

‘How is he, Muriel?' he asked.

‘I have seen worse,' she said, quietly.

‘Nothing seriously wrong with him?'

‘No.'

The man approached Charles and stood looking down, with a supercilious smile on his lips. He stood there for some minutes, while Charles peered up, more than ever conscious of his swollen eyes. It was becoming difficult to see out of one of them.

‘It's a good thing for you that you convinced them that you knew nothing,' he said, ‘or you would have been in a bad way, Lumsden.'

‘Someone else is going to be in a bad way before I've finished,' said Lumsden, speaking with difficulty.

‘Threats?' murmured the other. ‘They won't serve you. I shouldn't harbour thoughts of vengeance, if I were you. In fact you've little cause for complaint, and you'll have less soon. Take my advice, and don't go shouting about this to the police, or you will get hurt.'

Charles said nothing.

‘And take another piece of advice from me,' said the man. ‘Have nothing to do with Palfrey. He's the cause of all this. He isn't what he seems.' He turned abruptly. ‘Come along, Muriel.'