VI
Henry moved to the wall under the staircase and pressed a button, which set the mechanism of a secret panel in the wall into action. The panel slid back. Henry stepped through the opening, and switched on the lights at the head of the secret passage stairs.
Poking his head out, he beckoned to Niki. The valet picked up the senseless form of the reporter, flung it over his shoulder as easily as he might handle a bag of flour, then passed through the secret doorway and followed Henry down the steps into the cellar.
Never, in my wildest fancy, could I have believed my extremely law-abiding and kindly dispositioned brother capable of such an act; it smacked of the sinister days of mediaeval times. Realizing the state he was in, his mind frenzied by anger and alcohol, I decided to let him carry out his own nefarious plan, and get out of the mess he had made the best way he could.
As I pictured the reporter coming out of the knockout blow, in his prison-cell below, a cold shiver ran down my spine. To me, it would have been frightening beyond endurance. While not exactly a prison, this underground section, like the secret panel in the wall, had been copied from the ancient Normandy castle, of which ours was an exact model. Opening off a narrow corridor were five cell-like rooms of stone and cement, with heavy steel doors. Four of them were in use, for wine and general storage purposes. The fifth, at the end of the corridor, was empty. The place was kept scrupulously clean, of course; it had outside ventilation and was electrically lighted.
About five minutes later Henry re-appeared, accompanied by Niki, to whom he gave instructions to remain on watch in the hall for the remainder of the night. Closing the secret panel, and apparently satisfying Olinski that he had made his prisoner comfortable for the night, they finally stepped into the elevator and went upstairs to bed.
As soon as they had gone, Niki switched off the ceiling and wall lights in the hall, leaving only the dim illumination of a lamp on the side table. He then curled himself up on a divan, and must have gone immediately to sleep.
I looked up suddenly from the sleeping watchman-valet to see a slim, whitish figure dart from the far side of the gallery, and disappear up the rear stairs, where a soft gleam of light penetrated from the corridor above. Convinced that Pat was still wandering restlessly about the castle, and wondering if she, too, had viewed the regrettable scene in the hall below, I sank back in my chair and passed into unhappy meditation.
Feeling a certain curiosity as to what she might be up to, I remained in concealment to await events. I had not long to wait. Presently she re-appeared, creeping softly down the rear stairs. In her right hand she carried a flashlight; in the left, an object which glistened and jingled as she walked, which I took to be Orkins' collection of house keys.
She wore a satiny dressing gown of ivory-white, which trailed behind her like a bridal garment as she crossed the gallery and descended the staircase. Carelessly thrown over her lovely head was a filmy, white scarf, which billowed about her shoulders like a summer's cloud. There was every indication in her movements that she was on her way to locate the reporter, alleviate his distress, or, perhaps, release him. In spite of her hazardous undertaking, I could not avoid staring after her in deep admiration.