The Seven Dials Mystery

  “Alfred? Rather. You leave that to me.”

  “Good. Get rid of him and watch out for me and Bill. Don’t show yourselves at the windows, but when we drive up, let us in at once. See?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all right then. Oh, Bundle, don’t let on that you’re going up to town. Make some other excuse. Say your taking Loraine home. How would that do?”

  “Splendidly. I say, Jimmy, I’m thrilled to the core.”

  “And you might as well make your will before starting.”

  “Better and better. But I wish I knew what it was all about.”

  “You will as soon as we meet. I’ll tell you this much. We’re going to get ready the hell of a surprise for No 7!”

  Bundle hung up the receiver and turned to Loraine, giving her a rapid résumé of the conversation. Loraine rushed upstairs and hurriedly packed her suitcase, and Bundle put her head round her father’s door.

  “I’m taking Loraine home, Father.”

  “Why? I had no idea she was going today.”

  “They want her back,” said Bundle vaguely. “Just telephoned. Bye-bye.”

  “Here, Bundle, wait a minute. When will you be home?”

  “Don’t know. Expect me when you see me.”

  With this unceremonious exit Bundle rushed upstairs, put a hat on, slipped into her fur coat and was ready to start. She had already ordered the Hispano to be brought round.

  The journey to London was without adventure, except such as was habitually provided by Bundle’s driving. They left the car at a garage and proceeded direct to the Seven Dials Club.

  The door was opened to them by Alfred. Bundle pushed her way past him without ceremony and Loraine followed.

  “Shut the door, Alfred,” said Bundle. “Now, I’ve come here especially to do you a good turn. The police are after you.”

  “Oh, my lady!”

  Alfred turned chalk white.

  “I’ve come to warn you because you did me a good turn the other night,” went on Bundle rapidly. “There’s a warrant out for Mr. Mosgorovsky, and the best thing you can do is to clear out of here as quick as you can. If you’re not found here, they won’t bother about you. Here’s ten pounds to help you get away somewhere.”

  In three minutes’ time an incoherent and badly scared Alfred had left 14 Hunstanton Street with only one idea in his head—never to return.

  “Well, I’ve managed that all right,” said Bundle with satisfaction.

  “Was it necessary to be so—well, drastic?” Loraine demurred.

  “It’s safer,” said Bundle. “I don’t know what Jimmy and Bill are up to, but we don’t want Alfred coming back in the middle of it and wrecking everything. Hallo, here they are. Well, they haven’t wasted much time. Probably watching round the corner to see Alfred leave. Go down and open the door to them, Loraine.”

  Loraine obeyed. Jimmy Thesiger alighted from the driving seat.

  “You stop here for a moment, Bill,” he said. “Blow the horn if you think anyone’s watching the place.”

  He ran up the steps and banged the door behind him. He looked pink and elated.

  “Hallo, Bundle, there you are. Now then, we’ve got to get down to it. Where’s the key of the room you got into last time?”

  “It was one of the downstairs keys. We’d better bring the lot up.”

  “Right you are, but be quick. Time’s short.”

  The key was easily found, the baize-lined door swung back and the three entered. The room was exactly as Bundle had seen it before, with the seven chairs grouped round the table. Jimmy surveyed it for a minute or two in silence. Then his eyes went to the two cupboards.

  “Which is the cupboard you hid in, Bundle?”

  “This one.”

  Jimmy went to it and flung the door open. The same collection of miscellaneous glassware covered the shelves.

  “We shall have to shift all this stuff,” he murmured. “Run down and get Bill, Loraine. There’s no need for him to keep watch outside any longer.”

  Loraine ran off.

  “What are you going to do?” inquired Bundle impatiently.

  Jimmy was down on his knees, trying to peer through the crack of the other cupboard door.

  “Wait till Bill comes and you shall hear the whole story. This is his staff work—and a jolly creditable bit of work it is. Hallo—what’s Loraine flying up the stairs for as though she’s got a mad bull after her?”

  Loraine was indeed racing up the stairs as fast as she could. She burst in upon them with an ashen face and terror in her eyes.

  “Bill—Bill—Oh, Bundle—Bill!”

  “What about Bill?”

  Jimmy caught her by the shoulder.

  “For God’s sake, Loraine, what’s happened?”

  Loraine was still gasping.

  “Bill—I think he’s dead—he’s in the car still—but he doesn’t move or speak. I’m sure he’s dead.”

  Jimmy muttered an oath and sprang for the stairs, Bundle behind him, her heart pounding unevenly and an awful feeling of desolation spreading over her.

  Bill—dead? Oh, no! Oh, no! Not that. Please God—not that.

  Together she and Jimmy reached the car, Loraine behind them.

  Jimmy peered under the hood. Bill was sitting as he had left him, leaning back. But his eyes were closed and Jimmy’s pull at his arm brought no response.

  “I can’t understand it,” muttered Jimmy. “But he’s not dead. Cheer up, Bundle. Look here, we’ve got to get him into the house. Let’s pray to goodness no policeman comes along. If anybody says anything, he’s our sick friend we’re helping into the house.”

  Between the three of them they got Bill into the house without much difficulty, and without attracting much attention, save for an unshaven gentleman, who said sympathetically:

  “Genneman’s ’ad a couple, I shee,” and nodded his head sapiently.

  “Into the little back room downstairs,” said Jimmy. “There’s a sofa there.”

  They got him safely on to the sofa and Bundle knelt down beside him and took his limp wrist in her hand.

  “His pulse is beating,” she said. “What is the matter with him?”

  “He was all right when I left him just now,” said Jimmy. “I wonder if someone’s managed to inject some stuff into him. It would be easily done—just a prick. The man might have been asking him the time. There’s only one thing for it. I must get him a doctor at once. You stay here and look after him.”

  He hurried to the door, then paused.

  “Look here—don’t be scared, either of you. But I’d better leave you my revolver. I mean—just in case. I’ll be back just as soon as I possibly can.”

  He laid the revolver down on the little table by the sofa, then hurried off. They heard the front door bang behind him.

  The house seemed very still now. The two girls stayed motionless by Bill. Bundle still kept her finger on his pulse. It seemed to be beating very fast and irregularly.

  “I wish we could do something,” she whispered to Loraine. “This is awful.”

  Loraine nodded.

  “I know. It seems ages since Jimmy went and yet it’s only a minute and a half.”

  “I keep hearing things,” said Bundle. “Footsteps and boards creaking upstairs—and yet I know it’s only imagination.”

  “I wonder why Jimmy left us the revolver,” said Loraine. “There can’t really be danger.”

  “If they could get Bill—” said Bundle and stopped.

  Loraine shivered.

  “I know—but we’re in the house. Nobody can get in without our hearing them. And anyway we’ve got the revolver.”

  Bundle turned her attention back again to Bill.

  “I wish I knew what to do. Hot coffee. You give them that sometimes.”

  “I’ve got some smelling salts in my bag,” said Loraine. “And some brandy. Where is it? Oh, I must have left it in the room upstairs.”

  “I’ll get it,” said B
undle. “They might do some good.”

  She sped quickly up the stairs, across the gaming room and through the open door into the meeting place. Loraine’s bag was lying on the table.

  As Bundle stretched out her hand to take it, she heard a noise from behind her. Hidden behind the door a man stood ready with a sandbag in his hand. Before Bundle could turn her head, he had struck.

  With a faint moan, Bundle slipped down, an unconscious heap upon the floor.

  Thirty-one

  THE SEVEN DIALS

  Very slowly Bundle returned to consciousness. She was aware of a dark, spinning blackness, the centre of which was a violent, throbbing ache. Punctuating this were sounds. A voice that she knew very well saying the same thing over and over again.

  The blackness span less violently. The ache was now definitely located as being in Bundle’s own head. And she was sufficiently herself to take an interest in what the voice was saying.

  “Darling, darling Bundle. Oh, darling Bundle. She’s dead; I know she’s dead. Oh, my darling. Bundle, darling, darling Bundle. I do love you so. Bundle—darling—darling—”

  Bundle lay quite still with her eyes shut. But she was now fully conscious. Bill’s arms held her closely.

  “Bundle darling—Oh, dearest, darling Bundle. Oh, my dear love. Oh, Bundle—Bundle. What shall I do? Oh, darling one—my Bundle—my own dearest, sweetest Bundle. Oh, God, what shall I do? I’ve killed her. I’ve killed her.”

  Reluctantly—very reluctantly—Bundle spoke.

  “No, you haven’t, you silly idiot,” she said.

  Bill gave a gasp of utter amazement.

  “Bundle—you’re alive.”

  “Of course I’m alive.”

  “How long have you been—I mean when did you come to?”

  “About five minutes ago.”

  “Why didn’t you open your eyes—or say something?”

  “Didn’t want to. I was enjoying myself.”

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Yes. Listening to all the things you were saying. You’ll never say them so well again. You’ll be too beastly self-conscious.”

  Bill had turned a dark brick-red.

  “Bundle—you really didn’t mind? You know, I do love you so. I have for ages. But I never have dared to tell you so.”

  “You silly juggins,” said Bundle. “Why?”

  “I thought you’d only laugh at me. I mean—you’ve got brains and all that—you’ll marry some bigwig.”

  “Like George Lomax?” suggested Bundle.

  “I don’t mean a fatuous ass like Codders. But some really fine chap who’ll be worthy of you—though I don’t think anyone could be that,” ended Bill.

  “You’re rather a dear, Bill.”

  “But, Bundle, seriously, could you ever? I mean, could you ever bring yourself to?”

  “Could I ever bring myself to do what?”

  “Marry me. I know I’m awfully thickheaded—but I do love you, Bundle. I’d be your dog or your slave or your anything.”

  “You’re very like a dog,” said Bundle. “I like dogs. They’re so friendly and faithful and warmhearted. I think that perhaps I could just bring myself to marry you, Bill—with a great effort, you know.”

  Bill’s response to this was to relinquish his grasp of her and recoil violently. He looked at her with amazement in his eyes.

  “Bundle—you don’t mean it?”

  “There’s nothing for it,” said Bundle. “I see I shall have to relapse into unconsciousness again.”

  “Bundle—darling—” Bill caught her to him. He was trembling violently. “Bundle—do you really mean it—do you?—you don’t know how much I love you.”

  “Oh, Bill,” said Bundle.

  There is no need to describe in detail the conversation of the next ten minutes. It consisted mostly of repetitions.

  “And do you really love me?” said Bill, incredulously, for the twentieth time as he at last released her.

  “Yes—yes—yes. Now do let’s be sensible. I’ve got a racking head still, and I’ve been nearly squeezed to death by you. I want to get the hang of things. Where are we and what’s happened?”

  For the first time, Bundle began to take stock of her surroundings. They were in the secret room, she noted, and the baize door was closed and presumably locked. They were prisoners, then!

  Bundle’s eyes came back to Bill. Quite oblivious of her question he was watching her with adoring eyes.

  “Bill, darling,” said Bundle, “pull yourself together. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Eh?” said Bill. “What? Oh, yes. That’ll be all right. No difficulty about that.”

  “It’s being in love makes you feel like that,” said Bundle. “I feel rather the same myself. As though everything’s easy and possible.”

  “So it is,” said Bill. “Now that I know you care for me—”

  “Stop it,” said Bundle. “Once we begin again any serious conversation will be hopeless. Unless you pull yourself together and become sensible, I shall very likely change my mind.”

  “I shan’t let you,” said Bill. “You don’t think that once having got you I’d be such a fool as to let you go, do you?”

  “You would not coerce me against my will, I hope,” said Bundle grandiloquently.

  “Wouldn’t I?” said Bill. “You just watch me do it, that’s all.”

  “You really are rather a darling, Bill. I was afraid you might be too meek, but I see there’s going to be no danger of that. In another half hour you’d be ordering me about. Oh, dear, we’re getting silly again. Now, look here, Bill. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I tell you that’ll be quite all right. I shall—”

  He broke off, obedient to a pressure from Bundle’s hand. She was leaning forward, listening intently. Yes, she had not been mistaken. A step was crossing the outer room. The key was thrust into the lock and turned. Bundle held her breath. Was it Jimmy coming to rescue them—or was it someone else?

  The door opened and the black-bearded Mr. Mosgorovsky stood on the threshold.

  Immediately Bill took a step forward, standing in front of Bundle.

  “Look here,” he said, “I want a word with you privately.”

  The Russian did not reply for a minute or two. He stood stroking his long, silky black beard and smiling quietly to himself.

  “So,” he said at last, “it is like that. Very well. The lady will be pleased to come with me.”

  “It’s all right, Bundle,” said Bill. “Leave it to me. You go with this chap. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I know what I’m doing.”

  Bundle rose obediently. That note of authority in Bill’s voice was new to her. He seemed absolutely sure of himself and confident of being able to deal with the situation. Bundle wondered vaguely what it was that Bill had—or thought he had—up his sleeve.

  She passed out of the room in front of the Russian. He followed her, closing the door behind him and locking it.

  “This way, please,” he said.

  He indicated the staircase and she mounted obediently to the floor above. Here she was directed to pass into a small frowsy room, which she took to be Alfred’s bedroom.

  Mosgorovsky said: “You will wait here quietly, please. There must be no noise.”

  Then he went out, closing the door behind him and locking her in.

  Bundle sat down on a chair. Her head was aching badly still and she felt incapable of sustained thought. Bill seemed to have the sitaution well in hand. Sooner or later, she supposed, someone would come and let her out.

  The minutes passed. Bundle’s watch had stopped, but she judged that over an hour had passed since the Russian had brought her here. What was happening? What, indeed, had happened?

  At last she heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Mosgorovsky once more. He spoke very formally to her.

  “Lady Eileen Brent, you are wanted at an emergency meeting of the Seven Dials Society. Please follow me.”

 
He led the way down the stairs and Bundle followed him. He opened the door of the secret chamber and Bundle passed in, catching her breath in surprise as she did so.

  She was seeing for the second time what she had only had a glimpse of the first time through her peephole. The masked figures were sitting round the table. As she stood there, taken aback by the suddenness of it, Mosgorovsky slipped into his place, adjusting his clock mask as he did so.

  But this time the chair at the head of the table was occupied. No 7 was in his place.

  Bundle’s heart beat violently. She was standing at the foot of the table directly facing him and she stared and stared at the mocking piece of hanging stuff, with the clock dial on it, that hid his features.

  He sat quite immovable and Bundle got an odd sensation of power radiating from him. His inactivity was not the inactivity of weakness—and she wished violently, almost hysterically, that he would speak—that he would make some sign, some gesture—not just sit there like a gigantic spider in the middle of its web waiting remorselessly for its prey.

  She shivered and as she did so Mosgorovsky rose. His voice, smooth, silky, persuasive, seemed curiously far away.

  “Lady Eileen, you have been present unasked at the secret councils of this society. It is therefore necessary that you should identify yourself with our aims and ambitions. The place 2 o’clock, you may notice, is vacant. It is that place that is offered to you.”

  Bundle gasped. The thing was like a fantastic nightmare. Was it possible that she, Bundle Brent, was being asked to join a murderous secret society? Had the same proposition been made to Bill, and had he refused indignantly?

  “I can’t do that,” she said bluntly.

  “Do not answer precipitately.”

  She fancied that Mosgorovsky, beneath his clock mask, was smiling significantly into his beard.

  “You do not as yet know, Lady Eileen, what it is you are refusing.”

  “I can make a pretty good guess,” said Bundle.

  “Can you?”

  It was the voice of 7 o’clock. It awoke some vague chord of memory in Bundle’s brain. Surely she knew that voice?