“Indeed no, I am but the humblest of the master’s servants. I carry out his behests, that is all—as do other of his servants in other countries—in South America, for instance.”
I advanced a step.
“Where is she? What have you done with her out there?”
“She is in a place of safety—where none will find her. As yet, she is unharmed. You observe that I say—as yet!”
Cold shivers ran down my spine as I confronted this smiling devil.
“What do you want?” I cried. “Money?”
“My dear Captain Hastings. We have no designs on your small savings, I can assure you. Not—pardon me—a very intelligent suggestion on your part. Your colleague would not have made it, I fancy.”
“I suppose,” I said heavily, “you wanted to get me into your toils. Well, you have succeeded. I have come here with my eyes open. Do what you like with me, and let her go. She knows nothing, and she can be no possible use to you. You’ve used her to get hold of me—you’ve got me all right, and that settles it.”
The smiling Oriental caressed his smooth cheek, watching me obliquely out of his narrow eyes.
“You go too fast,” he said purringly. “That does not quite—settle it. In fact, to ‘get hold of you’ as you express it, is not really our objective. But through you, we hope to get hold of your friend, M. Hercule Poirot.”
“I’m afraid you won’t do that,” I said, with a short laugh.
“What I suggest is this,” continued the other, his words running on as though he had not heard me. “You will write M. Hercule Poirot a letter, such a letter as will induce him to hasten thither and join you.”
“I shall do no such thing,” I said angrily.
“The consequences of refusal will be disagreeable.”
“Damn your consequences.”
“The alternative might be death!”
A nasty shiver ran down my spine, but I endeavoured to put a bold face upon it.
“It’s no good threatening me, and bullying me. Keep your threats for Chinese cowards.”
“My threats are very real ones, Captain Hastings. I ask you again, will you write this letter?”
“I will not, and what’s more, you daren’t kill me. You’d have the police on your tracks in no time.”
My interlocutor clapped his hands swiftly. Two Chinese attendants appeared as it were out of the blue, and pinioned me by both arms. Their master said something rapidly to them in Chinese, and they dragged me across the floor to a spot in one corner of the big chamber. One of them stooped, and suddenly, without the least warning, the flooring gave beneath my feet. But for the restraining hand of the other man I should have gone down the yawning gap beneath me. It was inky black, and I could hear the rushing of water.
“The river,” said my questioner from his place on the divan. “Think well, Captain Hastings. If you refuse again, you go headlong to eternity, to meet your death in the dark waters below. For the last time, will you write that letter?”
I’m not braver than most men. I admit frankly that I was scared to death, and in a blue funk. That Chinese devil meant business, I was sure of that. It was goodbye to the good old world. In spite of myself, my voice wobbled a little as I answered.
“For the last time, no! To hell with your letter!”
Then involuntarily I closed my eyes and breathed a short prayer.
Thirteen
THE MOUSE WALKS IN
Not often in a lifetime does a man stand on the edge of eternity, but when I spoke those words in that East End cellar I was perfectly certain that they were my last words on earth. I braced myself for the shock of those black, rushing waters beneath, and experienced in advance the horror of that breath-choking fall.
But to my surprise a low laugh fell on my ears. I opened my eyes. Obeying a sign from the man on the divan, my two jailers brought me back to my old seat facing him.
“You are a brave man, Captain Hastings,” he said. “We of the East appreciate bravery. I may say that I expected you to act as you have done. That brings us to the appointed second act of your little drama. Death for yourself you have faced—will you face death for another?”
“What do you mean?” I asked hoarsely, a horrible fear creeping over me.
“Surely you have not forgotten the lady who is in our power—the Rose of the Garden.”
I stared at him in dumb agony.
“I think, Captain Hastings, that you will write that letter. See, I have a cable form here. The message I shall write on it depends on you, and means life or death for your wife.”
The sweat broke out on my brow. My tormentor continued, smiling amiably, and speaking with perfect sangfroid:
“There, captain, the pen is ready to your hand. You have only to write. If not—”
“If not?” I echoed.
“If not, that lady that you love dies—and dies slowly. My master, Li Chang Yen, amuses himself in his spare hours by devising new and ingenious methods of torture—”
“My God!” I cried. “You fiend! Not that—you wouldn’t do that—”
“Shall I recount to you some of his devices?”
Without heeding my cry of protest, his speech flowed on—evenly, serenely—till with a cry of horror I clapped my hands to my ears.
“It is enough, I see. Take up the pen and write.”
“You would not dare—”
“Your speech is foolishness, and you know it. Take up the pen and write.”
“If I do?”
“Your wife goes free. The cable shall be despatched immediately.”
“How do I know that you will keep faith with me?”
“I swear it to you on the sacr
ed tombs of my ancestors. Moreover, judge for yourself—why should I wish to do her harm? Her detention will have answered its purpose.”
“And—and Poirot?”
“We will keep him in safe custody until we have concluded our operations. Then we will let him go.”
“Will you swear that also on the tombs of your ancestors?”
“I have sworn one oath to you. That should be sufficient.”
My heart sank. I was betraying my friend—to what? For a moment I hesitated—then the terrible alternative rose like a nightmare before my eyes. Cinderella—in the hands of these Chinese devils, dying by slow torture—
A groan rose to my lips. I seized the pen. Perhaps by careful wording of the letter I could convey a warning, and Poirot would be enabled to avoid the trap. It was the only hope.
But even that hope was not to remain. The Chinaman’s voice rose, suave and courteous.
“Permit me to dictate to you.”
He paused, consulted a sheaf of notes that lay by his side, and then dictated as follows:
Dear Poirot, I think I’m on the track of Number Four. A Chinaman came this afternoon and lured me down here with a bogus message. Luckily I saw through his little game in time, and gave him the slip. Then I turned the tables on him, and managed to do a bit of shadowing on my own account—rather neatly too, I flatter myself. I’m getting a bright young lad to carry this to you. Give him half a crown, will you? That’s what I promised him if it was delivered safely. I’m watching the house, and daren’t leave. I shall wait for you until six o’clock, and if you haven’t come then, I’ll have a try at getting into the house on my own. It’s too good a chance to miss, and, of course, the boy mightn’t find you. But if he does, get him to bring you down here right away. And cover up those precious moustaches of yours in case anyone’s watching out from the house and might recognize you.
Yours in haste,
A.H.
Every word that I wrote plunged me deeper in despair. The thing was diabolically clever. I realized how closely every detail of our life must be known. It was just such an epistle as I might have penned myself. The acknowledgement that the Chinaman who had called that afternoon had endeavoured to “lure me away” discounted any good I might have done by leaving my “sign” of four books. It had been a trap, and I had seen through it, that was what Poirot would think. The time, too, was cleverly planned. Poirot, on receiving the note, would have just time to rush off with his innocent-looking guide, and that he would do so I knew. My determination to make my way into the house would bring him posthaste. He always displayed a ridiculous distrust of my capacities. He would be convinced that I was running into danger without being equal to the situation, and would rush down to take command of the situation.