The Mysterious Three

“Naturally.”

“Have you any idea why?”

“None.”

“Then I will tell you. Listen.”

He was standing beside the bed. The Baronne, near him, looked with interest at Faulkner and myself as we now stood together a yard or two away from them.

“For some months past,” Paulton said, watching me with an unpleasant expression, “you have been on intimate terms with the Thorolds.”

“Really,” I answered, shortly, “I can’t see what concern that is of yours. I have known the Thorolds intimately for a good many years. Perhaps you will tell me your reason for the extraordinary liberty you took last night in bringing us here. I consider it a gross impertinence.”

“Impertinence!” he laughed. “Let me tell you both,” he said, “that you have to thank this lady,” he turned slightly to indicate the Baronne, “for being alive to-day. When I brought you here I intended that neither of you should ever again be heard of. Your disappearance would have made a stir, no doubt, but the stir would not have lasted; you would soon have been forgotten here. Dead men tell no tales. But the Baronne interfered.”

“I’m sure we feel deeply grateful,” I answered ironically. “One would think we were conspirators, or criminals, by the way you talk. So far as I’m aware, I never set eyes on you until last night in the Hotel de Paris.”

“Quite likely,” he replied, “but that is beside the point. You possess information you have no right to possess. You know the Thorolds’ secret, and until your lips are closed I shall not feel safe.” Ah! that remarkable secret again! What on earth could it be? That was the thought that flashed across my mind, but I merely answered – “You can’t suppose I shall reveal it?”

He smiled coldly.

“Not reveal it, man, when you know what is at stake! You must think me very confiding if you suppose I shall trust your bare assurance. As I have said, I intended to – to – well, to close both your mouths.”

“Why Faulkner’s,” I asked.

“Because he is to marry Gladys Deroxe, who is so friendly with Vera Thorold, who is to be my wife. Vera knows too much, and may have told her little friend what she knows. I mistrust Vera’s friends – even her friends’ friends. You understand?”

“At that rate,” I answered, growing reckless, “you will need to ‘remove’ a good many people.”

“That is possible. It is for that reason – ”

“Oh, why talk so much!” the Baronne interrupted impatiently. “Tell him everything in a few words, and have done with it!”

“I will.” He said fiercely, “You both stand in my way. I brought you here last night to get rid of you. I came into this room some minutes ago to carry out my plan. I was going to kill you both with an anaesthetic. Then the Baronne came in, threatening to wake you if I tried to do what I had said I should. I felt you touch me in the dark, I knew we had awakened you, and at once seized you – the Baronne held your throat to prevent your calling out. Then Faulkner sprang up and turned on the light and – ”

He paused, listening. There had been another cry for help, barely audible even in the stillness of the night. He glanced at his companion. She too had heard it.

They looked meaningly at each other, but neither moved to leave the room. The cry had sounded so piteous that I should myself have rushed out to ascertain whence it came. Was it Vera’s voice? Paulton was near the door, and to have passed him would have been impossible.

Was it my Vera? The thought held me in a frenzy.

“There is only one way,” he went on, as though nothing had happened, “for you to regain your liberty. I should not offer even this, had not the Baronne persuaded me to against my better judgment.”

“What is the way?”

“You must never attempt to see Vera again. And you, Faulkner, must write at once to Gladys Deroxe and break off your engagement. It is the only alternative. Do you both agree?”

Neither of us answered. The suggestion was a childlike one.

“Is there no other way?” I asked at last in order to gain time.

“None.”

“Then I refuse absolutely,” Faulkner exclaimed hotly.

“Your proposal is ridiculous,” I declared with a grin.

Paulton turned furiously on the Baronne.

“I said what it would be!” he broke out with a curse. “Get out of my way!”

She had sprung in front of him, but he pushed her aside. Again she rushed forward to stop his doing something – we had not guessed what it was – and this time he struck her a blow in the face with his open hand, and with a cry she fell forward on to the bed.

Beside myself, I leapt forward, but Faulkner was nearer to him and I saw his fist fly out. I did not know then that Faulkner had won “friendly bouts” against professional light-weight boxers at the National Sporting Club. It was a stunning blow, Faulkner’s fist hit him on the mouth, at what boxers call the “crucial moment,” that is, just before the arm straightens. Paulton reeled backward, his lower lip rent almost to the chin.

His hand disappeared. Now it flashed out with a Browning pistol, but as the shot rang out the woman leapt to her feet and struck his arm away. An instant later Faulkner was behind him deftly twisting his left arm so that he bent backward with a scream of pain.

I had wrested the weapon from him ere he could shoot again, and as I helped Faulkner to hold him down I realised the man’s colossal strength. Mad with fury, and with blood pouring from his mouth, he struggled to get free. But the twisted arm that Faulkner still clutched tightly by the wrist with both hands, kept him down. Suddenly he changed his tactics. He had wormed himself half round on the floor, his teeth closed tightly upon Faulkner’s right shoulder.

“Twist his right arm – quick!” Faulkner shouted at me.

I did so, and the man lay flat upon his back, his two arms screwed so tightly that I marvelled they did not break.

The strange, warm smell that I had noticed in the room for the first time some minutes previously, and that had gradually grown stronger, was now so oppressive that it almost stifled us. Still holding down our man, we both glanced about the room to find out whence it came, and now we noticed that the atmosphere was foggy, or so it seemed. The Baronne was standing by us, staring down at Paulton, but not attempting in any way to help him. Her gaze was dull, almost vacant. She seemed stupefied.

An odd noise, as of distant roaring, sounded somewhere in the house. It was growing louder. All at once I saw the Baronne move quickly to the door. She listened for a moment, then turned the handle slowly.

As the door opened a little way, a cloud of dense, yellow smoke swept into the room, choking and nearly blinding us. She slammed the door and locked it.

“Dieu!” she gasped, pale as death.

And then, simultaneously, we knew the awful truth, that the château was on fire; that our only way of escape was made impassable by smoke.

Chapter Sixteen

The Harvest of Fire

In face of Death human antagonism becomes suddenly absorbed in the mad craving for Life.

The bitter hatred, the fearful rage, the furious struggle of the past few minutes were, in that instant, forgotten as though they had never been. Speechless with terror we gazed hopelessly at each other. Ah! I can see that picture still. Am I ever likely to forget it?

The Baronne, deathly white, stood there a handsome figure, trembling in her wonderfully embroidered pink kimono, her eyes fixed and starting as though madness were stealing into her brain. Paulton stood with his lips badly cut. Young Faulkner was erect and calm, with set teeth, blood spattered about his pyjamas, and an angry red wound showing at the spot where Paulton in his frenzy had bitten into his shoulder.

Truly, it was a weird and terrible scene. I stood aghast.

The fierce devouring roar in the house increased. It sounded like a furnace heard at night in the Black Country. Quickly the air grew thicker. Through the door, dark yellow, choking smoke percolated, then rolled upward in spirals that became merged in the general atmosphere.

We both slipped into our clothes hurriedly. Then Faulkner was the first to act.