Another Man's Shoes

by Victor Bridges

CHAPTER XIX

"A good, heavy spanner," I said, "will be about my mark."

Billy rummaged in the tool-box, selected the article in question, and handed it over to me.

"If you get well home with that," he observed, "we shan't have much need of a gun."

I stored it away in my side pocket. "No guns, Billy," I said, "except as a last resort. This is going to be a case of 'all done by kindness.'"

Billy grinned, and walking round to the front of the car, proceeded to start her up.

The hands of the big clock in the stable-yard were just pointing to half-past seven. We had squared our account with the Plough, swallowed down a hasty meal, and strapped our belongings on the grid at the back. Everything, so to speak, was cleared for action, and as we slowly turned out of the yard into the street I could feel my heart beating a little quicker than usual with a pleasant sense of anticipation.

Beyond the fact that we meant to get Mercia out of the house, we had made no particular plans. Somehow or other, we should find a way of breaking in, and, as Billy said, once inside it would take more than a couple of Dagoes to stop us.

We steered our way through the quiet old town, which looked singularly peaceful in the mellow light of the setting sun. There was something delightfully incongruous between these pleasant, well-ordered streets and the wild enterprise on which we were embarking. I smiled to myself at the thought of what the emotions of some of the worthy passers-by would have been if they could have guessed our immediate purpose.

The Hollies lies a mile and a half outside Woodford, on the Orbridge road. Billy, of course, thanks to his two previous expeditions, knew every inch of the land. He halted the car under the shelter of a small plantation of pine trees, about a hundred yards from the house, and then as quietly as possible turned her round.

"She'll be all right here at the side," he said, in a low voice, "but we'd better leave the engine running. Might be in a bit of a hurry when we pick her up."

I nodded my approval, and going round to the back of the car, took out a couple of pieces of stout cord with which we had thoughtfully provided ourselves. Billy, meanwhile, having left everything ready for a flying start, proceeded to equip himself out of the tool-chest with a duplicate spanner to mine.

"We'll work round and up through the shrubbery," he whispered, weighing the implement in his hand. "That brings us out just opposite the back door."

"Right you are, Macduff," I said contentedly; "lead on."

It was already getting dusk, even in the open, and once under cover of the thick trees we practically said good-bye to daylight. Both Billy and I, however, possess a good working knowledge of woodcraft, gained from bitter experience, and I don't think we made more noise than was absolutely necessary. Anyhow, we finally arrived safe, if a trifle dishevelled, at the low railing which separated the back garden of the Hollies from the wood.

Here we paused, crouching down side by side, and surveying the back of the house with a kind of suppressed exhilaration.

Billy laid his hand on my sleeve. "Look here, Jack," he whispered, "I'll trail across first and see how the land lies. You stop here, and cover me with the gun. You're a better shot than I am."

It was just like Billy to bag the dangerous work with such an excuse, but this was no time for arguing. "Go on, then," I said. "Give me a hoot when you want me to join you."

He wriggled off noiselessly through the undergrowth in the direction of a large fir tree, which cast a gloomy shadow straight across the lawn. For a moment I was just able to make him out, creeping silently down this sombre pathway.

I shifted my gaze to the house and, revolver in hand, watched keenly for any sign of life. There were four windows looking out at the back, two on the ground floor and two above. They were all in darkness and, so far as I could see, tightly closed.

I spotted Billy once more, just by the back door. Then he disappeared again, and for perhaps five minutes I waited in cold tension, my eyes fixed steadily on the house.

Suddenly, very faint, came the hoot of an owl.

I thrust the revolver into my hip pocket, and picking my way through the undergrowth, cautiously followed Billy's track across the lawn. I found him crouching down under the left-hand window, almost invisible against the thick creeper.

"I've got it," he whispered, putting his lips right up against my ear. "There's a window open at the side—the pantry, I think. We can get in there."

He led the way round, stealthily as a panther, and I followed, clutching the spanner affectionately in my hand. The distance could not have been more than about twelve yards, but I have never reached a destination safely with greater thankfulness.

We found ourselves facing a small window about two feet from the ground. The top sash was a few inches open, and through the gap we could see a faint glimmer of light stealing in under the door opposite.

"I'd better go first," whispered Billy. "You're so devilish big, you'll probably stick."

I nodded, and with infinite care we lowered the sash, until every possible inch of space was available. Then, mounting on my back, Billy inserted his legs, and wriggled himself down bit by bit, until his feet touched the floor.

For a moment we paused, listening intently for any sounds in the passage. None came, and Billy, leaning forward through the window, again whispered in my ear.

"Head first, Jack. That's the only way for you."

I took his advice. I never thought I should get through, for my shoulders are at least a couple of inches broader than Billy's, and it had been a tight fit for him. A mighty squirm, combined with a sharp pull from inside at the critical moment, just did the trick, however, and there I was standing beside him in the darkness, sore but triumphant.

We waited a few seconds so that I could recover the breath which had been nearly squeezed out of my body. Then, treading as delicately as Agag, we advanced towards the door. Feeling about in the darkness, I discovered a latch, and the gentlest pressure showed me that the way was clear.

"Ready, Billy?" I whispered, drawing out my revolver.

"Right oh," came the swift response.

I swung the door open, and we stepped out swiftly into the passage.

We found ourselves in a long, low corridor lit by one gas jet, which was flickering away feebly over a baize door at the end. Except for the loud ticking of a clock in the room opposite, the place was as silent as a tomb.

Up the passage we crept, our ears strained for the first sound of danger. Billy made a mean effort to get to the baize door first, but I just managed to forestall him. Gripping the handle, I swung it open, at the same time raising my revolver ready to shoot if it were needed.

We were looking into the hall, a square, ill-furnished, dimly lit place, from which a staircase ran up to the floor above. There were a couple of doors opposite, both shut, and behind one of them we could hear the sound of voices.

Billy laid his hand on my arm, and for a moment we stood there motionless. Then came the unmistakable clatter of dice, followed a moment later by a burst of laughter and a peculiarly foul Spanish oath. In a second we had crossed the hall.

"Madre de Dios! I'm tired of this. You have the luck of Satan!"

There was the scrape of a chair as the speaker pushed back his seat.

Billy's hand was on the door-knob.

"Ready, Jack?" he whispered.

I nodded.

There was a crash, a gleam of light, and side by side we hurled ourselves into the room.

About what happened next I shall always be a bit confused. I recollect seeing a man in front of me—a big, dark fellow, his face wild with amazement and terror, his hand grabbing the back of the chair from which he had just started up. Then I suppose I must have flung my spanner, for his face seemed suddenly to double up, and he went backwards across the table with an ear-splitting shriek. As I leaped forward, I had a swift inspiring vision of Billy battering somebody's head against the wall, and the next thing I knew was that I was kneeling on the floor with a moaning, bloodstained object writhing feebly in my grip.

A few quick turns of the cord which I had whipped out of my pocket, and I rose to my feet again, panting and exultant.

Billy's voice, cheerful and cool as ever, rang out across the room.

"Well done, Jack! Now come and give us a hand with this lot."

He was in the farther corner, sitting comfortably astride of a furiously agitated mass of arms and legs, from which proceeded an unintelligible smother of Spanish and English blasphemy. He looked up smiling as I strode across.

"Get hold of that off leg, old son, will you?" he added. "Take care he doesn't bite: he's very peevish."

A brief scuffle, and our second captive was as trussed and helpless as the other.

Billy jumped up with a laugh. "Good work that," he said, "devilish good!" Then he walked across to where I had left my prisoner. "I say," he added, "you've put it across old Dot-and-carry-one all right. Spoilt his beauty for keeps from the look of it."

I picked up my discarded spanner.

"I'll leave you here, Billy," I said. "I'm off to find Mercia."

He nodded. "Right you are. Don't forget there's a female Dago about somewhere. She might be nasty."

He leant down over the writhing figure on the floor, and without waiting any further, I hurried out into the hall.

For a second I hesitated, wondering whether to go upstairs or to search the back regions first. The latter seemed the most likely spot, so crossing the hall and pushing open the baize door, I entered the passage up which we had so lately crept.

The first door on the right, where we had heard the clock ticking, proved to be the kitchen. It was empty, except for a solitary cat that arched her back and spat at me from the window-sill.

I gave a hurried glance round, then stepped back into the passage.

"Mercia!" I shouted. "Mercia!"

From the end of the corridor came a faint, stifled sound, like the cry of someone buried alive.

Two savage strides and I had reached the spot—a worm-eaten trap-door in the floor fastened down by a wooden bar. In my furious haste, I wrenched the thing off bodily, and then gripping the ring with both hands tore away the flap.

A short flight of stone steps met my gaze. I cleared them with a reckless jump, and the next moment, in the close, warm darkness, Mercia was in my arms.

"Ah," she cried, "it's you, it's you!" and I could feel her dear hand moving up and down my sleeve with a sobbing, half-incredulous joy. Then, somehow, our lips met, and all the barriers between us went down like matchwood in that first passionate kiss. I drew her up into the passage, and gazed hungrily into her white face. She was trembling violently, and my own hands were shaking like leaves.

"They've not hurt you, Mercia?" I whispered. Then my eyes fell on her wrist, circled by four livid bruises. "By God!" I cried savagely, "who did that?"

She hastily drew her sleeve over the marks.

"It's nothing, it's nothing," she sobbed. "Oh, I'm so glad you've come!"

I caught her arm, and gently turned back the covering so that I could see the bruises. They were the marks of a man's fingers,—there could be no question about that,—a vicious, brutal grip, which might easily have broken her wrist.

"Who was it, Mercia?" I repeated.

"It was Rojas," she added; "but it doesn't matter. He would have killed me last night if Guarez had not stopped him. Oh, let's get away before they know you're here."

"It's too late for that, Mercia," I said coolly. "They know I'm here all right. Billy's sitting over them with a spanner in the drawing-room."

She gazed at me half-skeptically, and then the old delicious smile broke through the mist of her eyes.

"They said last night that you were the Devil. I think I am beginning to believe them."

I laughed happily. "They'll be sure of it now," I said. "Where's the woman?"

"Juanita? She is in London. Guarez sent her up this morning to find out about Da Costa. She is to come back by the last train."

"I am afraid we shall miss her, then," said I. "We must leave here in ten minutes. Can you be ready, Mercia?"

"Yes, yes; I am ready. I have only to put a few things in my bag. But how are we going? Where are you taking me?"

"The car is outside," I replied. "I'll explain everything when we've started. I've got a few words to say to Señor Rojas first."

"You are going to kill him?" she asked dispassionately.

I shook my head, smiling. "No, Mercia," I said. "Not at present. He makes life so interesting, I really couldn't spare him."

"It would be best," she said simply. "And Guarez as well."

There was a childish candour about her point of view that appealed to me immensely.

"Well, you're right, of course," I said; "but they are so absurdly sensitive on these points in England. If it was San Luca, one might be reasonable."

Taking her hand, I led her into the hall, and at the foot of the stairs I drew her into my arms, and kissed her again on the mouth and hair and eyes before I let her go.

I watched her as far as the first landing and then, opening the door, came back into the sitting-room.

Billy had shifted the two prisoners into the centre of the floor, and was seated comfortably on the edge of the table smoking a pipe.

"It's all right," I said. "The woman's in London, and I've found Mercia. She'll be ready to come with us directly."

He nodded. "I heard you."

"How's Guarez?" I asked, going across to my injured enemy.

"So that's Guarez, is it?" said Billy, slipping off the table. "Oh, he's all right; you've only smashed his face a bit. There's no real damage done; I've been having a squint at him."

It must be admitted that my late adversary was not a pretty sight. He lay on the floor saying nothing, but glaring savagely at us out of one eye. The other had temporarily struck work.

"He's had enough, anyway," I said; "but I've got one or two words to say to the other gentleman. Let me introduce you. Señor Rojas of San Luca, Mr. William Logan of London. Billy, what do you think one ought to do to a man who crushes a girl's arm till it's nearly broken?"

"Flog him," said Billy cheerfully.

A muffled imprecation—too poignant to repeat, I am afraid—broke from the prostrate Dago.

"Besides," added Billy, "it may teach him to use prettier language."

He bent down, and with a swift jerk hoisted the prisoner to his feet. I looked round the room. In the farther corner was a stout ash walking-stick, leaning invitingly against the wall.

Whatever natural taciturnity Señor Rojas may have possessed vanished abruptly when he saw me pick up this useful weapon. He burst into a hideous jargon of Spanish,—the dog-Spanish of the Argentine Hinterland,—whining and imploring that we should not put this indignity on him.

"Kill me, Prado," he shrieked. "Kill me. I do not fear death."

"Shut up," said Billy. "The Devil's much too good a chap to be landed with a skunk like you. Come over."

He hauled the squirming figure across the table, and held it there by the simple expedient of lying across its head.

I gave the stick a tentative swish through the air. "This, my friend," I said in Spanish, "will teach you not to bully women."

Whether my optimistic prophecy was fulfilled I cannot say, but certain it is that Señor Rojas was no hand at suppressing his emotions. He howled and screamed with a vigour that warmed my heart, and it was only when his voice finally cracked, and the entertainment became less inspiriting, that I threw down the stick.

Billy released him, and he slid down on to the floor, blubbering and sobbing like a naughty boy.

"Here endeth the first lesson," observed Billy irreverently. Then, turning over the lachrymose figure with his foot, he added in a kind voice: "Take my tip, sonny, and pad your trousers next time you come out Prado-shooting."

I laughed and threw the stick in the corner of the room. "We'll leave that as a keepsake," I said. "Come along, Billy. I expect Mercia's ready by now."

We went out into the hall, shutting the door behind us, and thus cutting off the somewhat incoherent curses of Señor Rojas. Mercia, carrying a bag in her hand, was just coming down the staircase. From the sparkle in her eyes, I gathered that some echoes of our revelry must have reached her ears.

"Mercia," I said, taking the bag, "this is Billy. We owe a lot to Billy."

She gave him her hand with that sweet grace that characterised every movement.

"How can I thank you?" she said softly.

Billy bent down and kissed the tips of her fingers. "I don't want any thanks," he answered, straightening himself and looking at her with his frank smile. "I love a row any time."

"Are you quite ready, Mercia?" I asked.

She nodded, and we went out, closing the front door behind us.

The car was standing where we had left it, its big headlamps throwing two broad beams of golden light up the deserted road. As we reached it, Mercia, who was walking between us, suddenly swayed. I caught her in my arms, or I believe she would have fallen.

"I—I think I must be a little faint," she faltered. "I've not had anything to eat since last night."

I swore with some vigour. Then, picking her up tenderly, I carried her to the car and placed her in the back seat.

"We'll soon remedy that," I said. "I was an idiot not to have thought of it before."

I wrenched open my bag, and took out the sandwiches and whisky with which the ever-to-be-blessed Aunt Mary had so thoughtfully provided me. Mercia smiled gratefully; and the first sip of the spirit brought back a faint fleck of colour into her white face.

Billy was standing by, his brows drawn down in an angry frown.

"We let that cur off too easily," he growled. "Shall I go back and give him some more?"

"No, no," said Mercia. "I am much better. I am sure you have hurt him quite a lot. I heard him crying, and I was glad; but you mustn't hurt him any more. Take me away from this place—that's all I want."

"Just as you like," said Billy reluctantly. "I should love to have had a cut at him, though."

He took his seat at the wheel, while I climbed in beside Mercia and tucked her up comfortably with the rug. A minute later, we were spinning southwards through the cool night air along the road to Woodford—and London.

I shall never forget that drive. A strange, delightful sense of intimacy had sprung up between Mercia and myself, and I sat there holding her dear hand under the rug in a rich contentment that needed no words for its expression. Despite the dangers and perplexities that still surrounded us, there seemed no longer to be any cause for worry and doubt. The barriers were down—we knew that we loved each other, and in the light of that knowledge the world and its difficulties slipped temporarily into insignificance.

Indeed, it was only with a painful effort that I at last succeeded in wrenching myself back to the very necessary thought of our future proceedings.

"Mercia," I said, "when are the Tregattocks expecting you back? Soon?"

She nodded her head. "I told them I should be away for a few days. I did not know how long."

"Well, it seems to me," said I, "that the best thing we can do when we get to London is to drop you at an hotel. Then you can go back to them to-morrow, as if you'd just come from Woodford."

"And you?" she asked anxiously.

"I must go back to Park Lane. Whatever happens, I must stay there for another fortnight."

"But it is madness," she whispered fearfully; "more than ever madness now. Do you think Rojas will forget—"

"No," I interrupted, smiling; "I'm quite sure he won't forget for a long time. All the same, I've no intention of running away. I shall have Billy with me, and we're a fairly useful combination." Then I looked straight into her eyes. "Mercia," I said, "why did you come to Woodford?"

"Guarez sent for me," she answered simply. "He said that you were to die the next day, and I thought that perhaps I might save you."

"But why did he want you?" I persisted.

"I think he guessed," she said slowly. "Da Costa saw us that night in Park Lane, and since then Guarez has suspected that you cared for me. He meant to use me—how do you say?—as a decoy. I was to bring you to the Hollies, and once there—" She shivered.

"Things didn't pan out quite as he intended," I finished, with a laugh. "How did he find out about our meeting?"

"Your cousin sent a message."

"Maurice?" I cried. "But he didn't know!" Then a sudden idea struck me. "By Jove," I said, "Lady Baradell must have told him."

Mercia looked at me calmly. "Lady Baradell?" she repeated, "the beautiful woman who loves you?"

I sat up with a jerk. "Who told you that?" I demanded.

She shrugged her shoulders. "No one told me. I was watching her eyes when she spoke with you."

"Were you!" I said, with some admiration. I was learning quite a lot about women these days. Then I paused. "I wish I knew why Maurice had bolted up to London," I added regretfully. "I'm sure he's got some mischief up his sleeve."

"To London?" echoed Mercia. "Has your cousin gone to London?"

In a few words I acquainted her with the details of the telegram incident. "If it was about me," I finished, "I can't think who sent it, unless it was your missing Da Costa."

She shook her head. "It could not have been Da Costa. He would have let Guarez know first if there had been anything to tell. It is more like that it was Lord Sangatte."

"Sangatte!" I repeated in amazement. "What on earth has Sangatte got to do with this business?"

Mercia looked troubled. "I do not know, but I fear that your cousin must have told him something. They were speaking of him last night; they—they—" she faltered.

"Yes, Mercia?" I said.

I felt her clasp tighten. "I think that he would help them, if they should give me to him. I think that was why Guarez would not let Rojas kill me."

It took an instant for the blackguardly scheme to sink into my mind. Then, at a very opportune moment, Billy blew the horn, drowning the comment that forced itself from my lips.

"If that's the case," I said slowly, "I must have a little talk with Sangatte."

There was a short silence.

"Mercia," I went on, "why do you call yourself Miss de Rosen? I suppose Tregattock knows who you are. He evidently recognised me as Prado at the dance."

She shook her head. "No; he doesn't know that I am Mercia Solano. He was a friend of my father's when he was in San Luca, but I was only a little girl then. Later, when I was coming to England, some friends wrote to him about me, and Lady Tregattock invited me to stay."

"But why did you hide your real name?" I asked.

"I did not want my father's murderer to know that I was in England," answered Mercia. Then, with a kind of passionate break in her voice, she turned to me. "Oh, I have trusted you—I do trust you with all my heart! But tell me—ah, for pity's sake tell me!—who are you? You are so like Prado that even Guarez has been deceived."

I would have given much to be able to answer her questions, but like a black barrier my promise to Prado rose between us. I knew well that deeper even than her love for me was her passion for revenge on the man who had killed her father; and scoundrel as Prado might be, I had given him my word that for three weeks I would keep his secret.

"Just a few days longer, Mercia," I pleaded, "God knows I would tell you everything now if I could, but I have given my word, and I can't break it."

She did not answer for a moment Then slowly came the whispered words: "It shall be as you wish. I trust you always, because—because I love you."

A sudden furious blast from Billy, a violent swerve of the car that nearly took us into the hedge, and we were out on the road again with a pretty duet of abuse following us through the darkness.

Billy looked round with a smile. "Close shave that," he observed. "Fancy making love in the middle of the road!"

"Where are we?" I asked.

He pointed ahead to a clustered mass of lights that spread out long tentacles into the darkness.

"That's Romford, or ought to be. I shall have to slow up a bit now. We're getting into civilisation."

Through the apparently endless suburbs of London we slowly picked our way south-westwards. Billy steered with a cheerful confidence that was characteristic of him, never troubling to ask the way, but apparently contenting himself with an occasional glance at the stars to make sure that he was keeping in the right direction. As he observed to us over his shoulder, "You couldn't very well miss London, even if you tried."

The result was that we came in by a route which made up in length what it lacked in refinement. Interminable slums, lit by flaring public-houses just discharging their crowds into the street, rolled past us in monotonous succession. Twice we had to slow up to allow for the passage of two perspiring policemen and an obstructive prisoner, followed in either case by a vociferous, but judiciously unenterprising, crowd.

At last the houses began to give place to warehouses and factories, and in a few minutes we were threading the practically deserted thoroughfares of the City.

"We're all right now," observed Billy complacently. "Where do you want to go to?"

"Mercia is going to put up at an hotel for the night," I said. "We'll take her there, and then go on to Park Lane."

"What about the Inns of Court?" he suggested. "I stayed there for a fortnight last month, so I know the manager."

Mercia, who was looking very tired, nodded her head.

"That will do, Billy," I said. "Then you can go in and see him and arrange about the room. Tell him we've had a breakdown or something."

We passed the Mansion House and turned down Cheapside, pulling up at the door of the hotel, where Billy disentangled himself somewhat stiffly from the wheel.

"I'll just run in and fix things up," he said. "I shan't be a minute."

Mercia and I sat on in the car, in the broad lamplit thoroughfare, which at this hour was practically deserted. I took her hand and raised it gently to my lips.

"Till to-morrow, dearest," I said. "I'll ring you up first thing in the morning, before you go to the Tregattocks'. Then we can arrange about meeting."

She drew the fingers of her other hand down my sleeve. "And you will be very careful," she pleaded, "for my sake?"

I smiled at her reassuringly. "Mercia mine," I whispered, "I have something to live for now."

Billy came out of the hotel, accompanied by a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man with a short grey beard.

"It's all right," he said. "M. Paulhan will see that Miss de Rosen is quite comfortable."

The manager bowed. "I will be sure that Mademoiselle has everything she wishes."

I opened the door and helped Mercia out, a porter who appeared from the hotel possessing himself of her bag. I insisted that she should go straight up to bed, for she was obviously so tired that she could hardly keep her eyes open. So we parted in the lounge, Mercia going up in the lift, and Billy and I getting back into the car.

"I expect we shall find the house all locked up," I said. "I ought to have sent them a wire from Woodford to say we were coming."

"Well, it can't be helped," returned Billy. "We shall have to knock 'em up, that's all. Where do you keep the car?"

"Goodness knows," I laughed. "I never thought of asking Simpson."

Billy steered neatly round the corner of Park Lane. "It doesn't matter," he observed. "There's a big garage in Piccadilly. I'll shove her in there for the night after I've dropped you."

We slowed down and came to a stop outside the house. Through the glass above the door I saw that the hall was lit up.

"Someone's about, after all," I said.

"I expect they've got the policeman to supper," chuckled Billy. "Pleasant little surprise for 'em—eh? You go and knock, and I'll wait and see it's all right."

I walked up the steps, and thrust my key into the door. As I did so, it suddenly swung open, and I found myself face to face with a man who was standing just inside the threshold. Over his shoulder, I caught a momentary glimpse of the white, startled face of my pretty housemaid.

For a second I stared at the man without speaking. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and middle-aged, with a short, grizzled moustache and keen, watchful eyes.

"If you won't think me inquisitive," I remarked politely, "may I ask who you are?"

"I am Inspector Neil of Scotland Yard," he said slowly. "I believe that I am addressing Mr. John Burton."

It was a nasty shock, but I met it serenely.

"Well?" I returned.

Billy had jumped out of the car, and was coming up the steps.

The man raised his hand, and laid it quietly but firmly on my shoulder.

"Then, sir," he said, "it is my duty to arrest you."

There was a short pause.

I looked at him in frank amazement

"Arrest me!" I repeated. "What on earth for?"

The answer came with prompt and startling clearness—

"For the murder of Stuart Northcote."