The Best Murder Mysteries in One Edition. Эдгар Аллан По

he talked flippantly to Conrad, enraging the cross-grained doorkeeper to the point of homicidal mania.

      At last the door opened, and the German called imperiously to Conrad to return.

      “Let’s hope the judge hasn’t put his black cap on,” remarked Tommy frivolously. “That’s right, Conrad, march me in. The prisoner is at the bar, gentlemen.”

      The German was seated once more behind the table. He motioned to Tommy to sit down opposite to him.

      “We accept,” he said harshly, “on terms. The papers must be delivered to us before you go free.”

      “Idiot!” said Tommy amiably. “How do you think I can look for them if you keep me tied by the leg here?”

      “What do you expect, then?”

      “I must have liberty to go about the business in my own way.”

      The German laughed.

      “Do you think we are little children to let you walk out of here leaving us a pretty story full of promises?”

      “No,” said Tommy thoughtfully. “Though infinitely simpler for me, I did not really think you would agree to that plan. Very well, we must arrange a compromise. How would it be if you attached little Conrad here to my person. He’s a faithful fellow, and very ready with the fist.”

      “We prefer,” said the German coldly, “that you should remain here. One of our number will carry out your instructions minutely. If the operations are complicated, he will return to you with a report and you can instruct him further.”

      “You’re tying my hands,” complained Tommy. “It’s a very delicate affair, and the other fellow will muff it up as likely as not, and then where shall I be? I don’t believe one of you has got an ounce of tact.”

      The German rapped the table.

      “Those are our terms. Otherwise, death!”

      Tommy leaned back wearily.

      “I like your style. Curt, but attractive. So be it, then. But one thing is essential, I must see the girl.”

      “What girl?”

      “Jane Finn, of course.”

      The other looked at him curiously for some minutes, then he said slowly, and as though choosing his words with care: “Do you not know that she can tell you nothing?”

      Tommy’s heart beat a little faster. Would he succeed in coming face to face with the girl he was seeking?

      “I shall not ask her to tell me anything,” he said quietly. “Not in so many words, that is.”

      “Then why see her?”

      Tommy paused.

      “To watch her face when I ask her one question,” he replied at last.

      Again there was a look in the German’s eyes that Tommy did not quite understand.

      “She will not be able to answer your question.”

      That does not matter. I shall have seen her face when I ask it.”

      “And you think that will tell you anything?” He gave a short disagreeable laugh. More than ever, Tommy felt that there was a factor somewhere that he did not understand. The German looked at him searchingly. “I wonder whether, after all, you know as much as we think?” he said softly.

      Tommy felt his ascendancy less sure than a moment before. His hold had slipped a little. But he was puzzled. What had he said wrong? He spoke out on the impulse of the moment.

      “There may be things that you know which I do not. I have not pretended to be aware of all the details of your show. But equally I’ve got something up my sleeve that you don’t know about. And that’s where I mean to score. Danvers was a damned clever fellow——” He broke off as if he had said too much.

      But the German’s face had lightened a little.

      “Danvers,” he murmured. “I see——” He paused a minute, then waved to Conrad. “Take him away. Upstairs—you know.”

      “Wait a minute,” said Tommy. “What about the girl?”

      “That may perhaps be arranged.”

      “It must be.”

      “We will see about it. Only one person can decide that.”

      “Who?” asked Tommy. But he knew the answer.

      “Mr. Brown——”

      “Shall I see him?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “Come,” said Conrad harshly.

      Tommy rose obediently. Outside the door his gaoler motioned to him to mount the stairs. He himself followed close behind. On the floor above Conrad opened a door and Tommy passed into a small room. Conrad lit a hissing gas burner and went out. Tommy heard the sound of the key being turned in the lock.

      He set to work to examine his prison. It was a smaller room than the one downstairs, and there was something peculiarly airless about the atmosphere of it. Then he realized that there was no window. He walked round it. The walls were filthily dirty, as everywhere else. Four pictures hung crookedly on the wall representing scenes from Faust. Marguerite with her box of jewels, the church scene, Siebel and his flowers, and Faust and Mephistopheles. The latter brought Tommy’s mind back to Mr. Brown again. In this sealed and closed chamber, with its close-fitting heavy door, he felt cut off from the world, and the sinister power of the arch-criminal seemed more real. Shout as he would, no one could ever hear him. The place was a living tomb… .

      With an effort Tommy pulled himself together. He sank on to the bed and gave himself up to reflection. His head ached badly; also, he was hungry. The silence of the place was dispiriting.

      “Anyway,” said Tommy, trying to cheer himself, “I shall see the chief—the mysterious Mr. Brown and with a bit of luck in bluffing I shall see the mysterious Jane Finn also. After that——”

      After that Tommy was forced to admit the prospect looked dreary.

      Chapter 17

       Annette

       Table of Contents

      THE troubles of the future, however, soon faded before the troubles of the present. And of these, the most immediate and pressing was that of hunger. Tommy had a healthy and vigorous appetite. The steak and chips partaken of for lunch seemed now to belong to another decade. He regretfully recognized the fact that he would not make a success of a hunger strike.

      He prowled aimlessly about his prison. Once or twice he discarded dignity, and pounded on the door. But nobody answered the summons.

      “Hang it all!” said Tommy indignantly. “They can’t mean to starve me to death.” A new-born fear passed through his mind that this might, perhaps, be one of those “pretty ways” of making a prisoner speak, which had been attributed to Boris. But on reflection he dismissed the idea.

      “It’s that sour faced brute Conrad,” he decided. “That’s a fellow I shall enjoy getting even with one of these days. This is just a bit of spite on his part. I’m certain of it.”

      Further meditations induced in him the feeling that it would be extremely pleasant to bring something down with a whack on Conrad’s egg-shaped head. Tommy stroked his own head tenderly, and gave himself up to the pleasures of imagination. Finally a bright idea flashed across his brain. Why not convert imagination into reality? Conrad was undoubtedly the tenant of the house. The others, with the possible exception of the bearded German, merely used it as a rendezvous. Therefore, why not wait in ambush for Conrad behind the door, and when he entered bring down a chair, or one of the decrepit pictures,