The Room of Secrets

Sun (Christchurch), Volume 1, Issue 7, 13 February 1914, Page 11

The Room of Secrets

(By WILLIAM LE QTJEUX.)

..v & J [COPYRIGHT.]

" CHIEF dHAJWICTBiaS IN THE STOBY. BYDNE'i COLEFAX, a young business man of London, who has travelled Africa. He is introduced to the house of an old unkempt man, Koops, where, after strange happenings, he is entrapped in a room which apparently contains the body of a dead woman. Under the influence of an excruciating poison, Colefax is the subject of a painting by Koops. Later Colefax is discovered apparently drunk on the embankment. After receiving medical attention he visits No. - - 45 Weldon Street —Koop's supposed address. Mystery piles on mystery—-the inmates qf No. 45 know nothing Of the old man. KOOPS, who, L too, - has,*-travelled Africa, keeps a barbaric Nubian body-ser-syant. At Colefax's introduction ho forces coffee on his i beautiful daughter, JOAN, who, on entering the room, had re- • " ceived a mysterious signu from heT father. After taking the j coffee she: falls into a trance. On Colefax's protest, Koops declares he is.- acting according to doctor's' orders. Follows the entrapping of Colefax., WILL WA.RREN, a Cockney derelict, explains to Colefax how he (Colefax) had been dropped on the embankment from a motor car by a man and a girl. He also' tells. of another mysterious car fronj which a dead girl . had. been carried. " <■ r » ; CHAPTER IX. THE. HOUSE IN CRAVEN HILL. "Why?" I asked. "What 1 harm could he possibly do to youf Remember, he is vour father." "He could, by a word, bring me to disgrace, to ruin—to death!';' - *' '"And could you not, by a word, place him in the hands of the 'I suggested. ".]\.h! But yon do not understand, Mr Colefax," replied the girl, in impatience. "I—-I dare not utter a single word." . . - "You speak in enigmas, Miestfoai^'' T remarked. "Why hold Mr " Xoop in 'such terror? He is your father." "Father!" sl|e echoed, in a voice full of hatred lajnd contempt. " Has any other girl in the whoL; of England such a father as he? Does any other girl hate her life tsurrout?dings as I do? It was to ask your aid —to appeal to you to help me/Mr Colefax, that I called upon you yesterday." Her words surprised me. "If I can hfelp you in: any way, I shall be only .too delighted," I assured her quickly, noting her distress. "But I make 1, one stipulation—that you must be frank with me and tell me.the truth—the exact truth " "Ah! but I am living in deadly peril,'' she gasped, in a low: hoarse' whisper. '' So : haunted am .1 by , rear of the inevitable that,. hour -by hour, I am faced with tlie only alternative—tie grave." She uttered the last word in a strange, hard tone. I knew that she hinted at suicide. She was, therefore, in deadly fear of soma xeyelation which

her father might make. And yet did she not, on her part, know of Koop's terrible crimes? The situation was truly a strange and unusual one. "Why need you be?" I suggested. "I am aware that on the fateful night when I so innocently entered father's house you afterwards took me in a motor-car to the Embankment, and there left me for dead; that'you ' "Who told you that?" she gasped, interrupting me. And I saw through the gloom that her cheeks were pale; - "I was told by one who saw you—: o*:e who recognised ycfu," I replied very quietly, looking into her white face in the darkness. "One who saw me!" she echoed wildly. "Then —then the truth is already known?" she added in a tone of apprehension and terror. '' The truth of how you took me there and left me for dead is known to the police, " I said in the same low, earnest voice. "The police! "'she cried. "Do they know —are they aware of* my connection with the affair,?'.' . "Tb a certain extent,', yes," was my response. "Into another case —that of a girl who was found on the Embankment la,st September—the,.police are .at the present moment making diligent enquiry. The unfortunate girl was, it is known, found- byi Jessie, \ just as I! was, and she was neveV again seen by her friends." v Joan remained silent : for some moments. Then, in a weak, trembling voice, she. said: "Ah!. ~lt is just as I believed. I, am suspected and watched. The truth is but! The police know!" she gasped in blank despair, her gloved hands ! clasped before her. - "But you asked for my assistance," I said kindly. '' May I not be permitted to attempt to extricate you from this net of crime and suspicion , into which you seem to have so unfortunately fallen?' Will you not tell me exactly the cause ,of your; peril, and what you fear? I quite see that you are held in some terrible bondage—that you are forced to act as accomplice against your will. If I am to successfully assist you, I must know your father's secret. With that revealed to me I should have a power in my hands to wield on your behalf," I said very gravely. i( Ah! You want me to betray him! " she cried. "No, no. I could never do that, for reasons I have just explained. He would retaliate." "But supposing I go to the police and tell them all I know," I suggested. "What thfn?" "No!" sue shrieked. "No — a thousand times no! You must promise me —piromise on your word .of honour, Mr Colefax—never .to do that," she cried in haste, laying her hand upon my arm' appealingly. ''Why not?" I asked, greatly surprised at. her apparent eagerness to protect the man. "For many reasons—reasons which I eanziot explain," she said. "No—,

• ' ••• • your lips must remain sealed, for any revelation must of necessity bring ruin and death upon ;nyself. Promise me." Arid- I felt the grip of her" fingers upon my arm. "Why should I promise this?" I asked her. "I have discovered a riian who is a criminal; therefore, it is my duty as a citizen to expose him and hand him over to justice." '' And, by so doing, bring disaster upon me," she remarked, veyy slowly and distinctly. < For a few moments I did not reply. The silence of evening on that bleak, open moorland was broken only by the harsh cry of some night-bird, and the low 1 , distant rippling of the river that flowed deep in the valley below. I saw myself faced by an extremely - difficult problem. I had pledged her my friendship; yet, by so doing, I had also pledged myself Ho secrecy concerning the actions of the criminal. For, by revealing the truth to the police, I should be acting as her most bitter enemy. "Of course, I have no intention of doing anything contrary to your, inteiests, Miss Joan," I paid at last. "But, remember, I have fallen the victim of a foul and dastardly plot—one .victim among many. Indeed, concealed in that upstairs rooin while I was there was a woman lying dead." "A woman!" she sible! How do you know^" "Hotv do I know?" "Because I bent and felt her cold dead rface with my hands." "Are you quite certain of this?" she gasped. "Was it not a, chimera of your imagination?" , "No, it was, alas, stern reality," I said. '' The body was lying in that cavity which is concealed by one of the pictures." "Ah! Then you found that place! •llow did you discover it?" "By mere accident. I was groping in the darkness, and my hand touched the picture, which yielded. Within lay the body of the woman.'' "I—well, Mr Colefax—l—l really , can't believe it. Who could it have been?" "You knew nothing of the affair, then?" "Not a word. Who was the woman, .1 wonder?" I suddenly recollected the chain upon the neck, and the charm. "Around her neck, as I felt, I found a thin chain, and to it was attached what, to my touch, seemed like an oblong piece of stone about an inch "long and half an inch wide, cut square and, I think, engraved. A pin ran down the centre, and from that it was' suspended to the chain." '' A long stone,'' she repeated, reflectively. "I wonder if it could have been an ancient Egyptian seal of carnelian. If so, it was engraved on all four sides with the figures of the old Egyptian gods and a hieroglyphic inscription." "It was engraved, I remember perfectly well." . "Ah, no!" she cried, after -a moment's silence. "It could not have been. She would never have risked it. Never!" "Who?" '' Oh, nobody,'' she eried, quickly. "A strange suspicion crossed my mind —that's all." "But it does not alter the fact that, having discovered the evidence of a crime, it is my duty to inform the. police." . "Yes, Mr Colefax, it is your duty. Do it, by all means, if you entertain

no consideration for my unfortunate self.'' "X feel for you, Miss Joan, very deeply," I assured her. "Yet I cannot shield criminal actions of such ;a character as those practised by yoiX father and his Arab accomplice. I A '/Ibrahim is worse than my fatherfar worse. He is a 1 veritable fiend," she cried, interrupting. _ '' Have you any suspicion of the identity of the woman I discovered? You seem to recognise the charm she wore." The girl only sighed again. Yet I knew that she had some strong suspicion as to' whom it was who had been so foully done to death and concealed there. "Come," I said persuasively. "You are aware of that dead woman's identity—the woman who wore the charm. The pendant was an old Egyptian seal, you say, and Ibrahim is an Egyptian. What connection has the one with the other?" For a few moments the trembling girl remained silent. . "I tell you, Mr Colefax, that I do not know if I have any ground for iiiy suspicions." "But you have seen that charm worn upon a woman'a; neck. Who was the woman?" She hesitated. "Ah! Do not aslc-jne!" she cried, suddenly. "It is too horrible —too horrible." " Her name,", T asked. "I demand to know it. ' I will make enquiry myself." "Then—rthen I will tell you, and you can, make your own investigations. The girl's name is Fawcett—lvy Fawcett, and she lives with her father in Craven Hill—number 116." . "Craven Hill! ".I gasped. " Yes ? why ?'' she asked. It was upon the tip of my tongue to tell her how I had seen Koop coming from' the house in question, and how cleverly he had eluded me. But, fortunately, I kept my own counsel, and replied, lamely, "Well—only—only because I happen to have a friend who, lives in Craven Hill; quite close, in fact. That's all. I will go there and seek the truth, Miss Joan." " Yes, do. But —but you will regard what I have told you' in strictest confidence, won't you ?'' she urged. 1 ' Make enquiry, and tell me whether Ivy still lives." "Then she is your friend?" "Yes. My best —my most intimate friend. I cannot think that she dared to even enter our house." "Why?" I asked. "She was in ' possession of your father's secret, eh?" . "I —I believe so," she faltered. "In that case there was surely a strong motive why sho should die," I remarked, slowly. "When did you see her last?" "About a fortnight ago. I ealled and had tea with her at Craven Hill." "Did your father ever visit there?" 4 ' Never,'' was her prompt reply. "In his personality as Karl Koop he visits , nobody." 1 "Then he has a dual personality!" I exclaimed quickly. She sighed and hesitated, being at last compelled to admit that such was the case. "What is his other ..name?" I demanded of her in a low, intense voice. "At least.you will, if you are really my friend, tell me that.'' ' * No. If I did it would reveal his identity—perhaps his abode and his secret."

"And you are determined to conceal the latter, Miss Joanf " I remarked, reproachfully. "Only because my silence is imperative," she answered. Then, next second, she gripped my arm again, saying, "One day, perhaps, I may be permitted to tell you, Mr Colefax. But I cannot now. It is impossible. " "Then I shall avenge myself by informing the police, and they will search that fatal upstairs room.'' "If they can find it," she remarked grimly. 1 '' Then you know how cleverly the identity of your "father's house has been concealed from his victims, _and from myself," I said. "I do,'' was her reply. ''As I have told you, my father takes no risks. Our house is a house of secrets. Its existence is a secret except to ourselves, and his own identity is so secret that he defies the police to find either himself or his house." "I don't quite understand you." ''' Well, briefly, Mr Colefax, you don't know to which house in Bayswater you were taken, for I and my father have ourselves seen you searching for if. But I may as well tell you that you will never discover it—never." "Not if I watched for you and followed you home?" I asked. "Besides, Ibrahim, as a coloured man, must be well known in Bayswater." '' Enquire, and see if he is known,'' she said. "As for myself, even if you watched and followed me, I fear you would be none the" wiser.i - "Then you" 'are ~ defiant!'J' I claimed, surprised at her suddejn change of attitude. 'j/Not at all," she answered. "I merely tell you this in order that you need not waste valuable time upon enquiries which , must necessarily - be fruitless.'' '' Why" fruitless f" "Because Karl Koop's secrets* are far too well kept. As there is method in madness, so is there devilish cunning and subtle ingenuity in all the actions of my father, who, aided, by Ibrahim, laughs the police to scorn, and declares ■with truth that the veil of mystery beneath which he has hidden himself is impenetrable.'' . i. a u I. "Then he defies anyone to solve the problem of his residence, or elucidate the secret of his life —eh?" ' 1 He does'. Remember that his craftiness and cunning are marvellous, and Ibrahim is as clever a scoundrel as ever came out of Egypt, " she said. "And further, if you value your life, Mr Colefax, I *beg of you not t<i? endeavour to jjrobe further the problem now presented to you. Leave me tonight. Go away, and try and forget.'' "I could —if it were not for you, Miss Joan," I blurted forth, perhaps very foolishly. But, remember, I had been greatly attracted by her incomparable beauty. She only drew a long. sigh. Then, after a brief silence, she isaid/ ( in a quick, impetuous way: "If yoU ,: 'have any consideration for me—unfortunate . girl that I am —if you would save my life, you will at once relax to elucidate the affair, and my friend. Do not, I beg of you#; Court death by attempting to bring myifa'ther to justice, for I feel convinced that you will never succeed. He is far too clever, I assure you," and she again placed her trembling hand upon my coatsleeve. 1 ' I must know the truth. Then I will decide whether I speak or whether I remain silent," I said. "Reflect for a Mr Colefax.

If yon went to,the police.and made a statement, who would believe you! What corroboration-of your story could you'bring? Why> you could, not even point out the house to which Jessie took you." ' ■ ■ • And-. I stood there in the gloom, silent and perplexed. What Joan said was the truth. Karl Koop, evidently a genius in craftiness and cunning, stood defiant. He knew that I still remained alive, and feared lest I should arise' as a witness against him. Therefore he would, most certainly, attempt a second, and eveih more ingenious, coup against me. How should I act? How, my reader would yoiif, have acted in those same tangled circumstances? '' Well, " I exclaimed, after a few 'moments'-reflection, "you seek my advice and aid, Miss Joan. How do you propose that I can assist you ?'' For a few seconds she did not reply. Her head was bent before me. "I—l dare hot.suggest to you," she whispered. ' l l-*-I'm too filled with fear —too ashamed. Ah!" she burst forth, suddenly, looking up at me appealingly. "You do not- know me, Mr Colefax — you have no idea of the terrible enormity of my crime. And yet —yet I, in my desperation, have the audacity to hope—to think that you might perhaps take pity upon me and —and save me from an ignominious end!" "In what way do you suggest that I might help you?" I asked, repeating my question in a low voice of sympathy, my curiosity aroused by her strange remarks.-- ■ ■■ . ,n ; ■i * - , "By acting —acting blindly; against your own instincts. By—by placing yourself entirely and irrevocably in my hands." < "In your hands! " I cried. "What do you mean?" "I —I hardly know how to adequately explain," replied the girl, in a thin, trembling voice, ." for I,know, that you wbuld never consent. when I tell you, I—l know that—alas, you will hate men And why not? Is it not but natural that an honest man should hold in loathing a degraded woman whose hands are stained by a terrible ■ —a dastardly crime.'* 1 " '* You have not replied to my question, Miss Joan," I said, very firmly, noting that her whole frame was convulsed with emotion, and that this strange confession had been wrung from her by sheer desperation. "What can Ido to save you?"; t * ( ' Ah, listen —listen, and if you will forgive me for my words, I—l will tell you," siie said, in a hoarse, breathless whisper. At that instant I was startled by a slight, stealthy movement in the darkness, and turned to glance behind me, but ere I realised what had happened, I heard Joan utter a.loud shriek of alarm, and felt my throat encircled by pair of big, strong' hands, the long finger of which sank deep into my flesh. ' I tried to shout, to struggle for freedom, but to no avail. I was being strangled, arid ho sound passed my lips beyond a loud gurgle. My assailant was tall, robust, and athletic, and as I managed to turn in my efforts to extricate myself from his deadly embrace, I found myself, to my horror, looking into the grinning, evil face of Ibrahim. The girl, without further word, fell upon him, fiercely •■ endeavouring to assist me and. to tsar him off. But he was more than a match for us both. Even in the gloom I could see his fiery, bloodshot eyes glaring into mine with murderous intent, as slowly" he strangled

me, preventing me from . uttering a ".'® single sound, and bringing the into my mouth. ' ill That moment was a truly terrible one."-f|j My feelings were indescribable. By"2S daring, to venture there I had fallen into yet another trap. Koop, with his clever ingenuity, had again planned my death. * . I was held helpless by the Arab sinewy hands. ' , J~m "Help! Help!" shrieked the girl - || wringing her hands in despair, but th< 'cry "was rmheeded. He had forced ih( 'M backward against the wall, and wat crushing the life from-me. v .0 oan's fears had, alas, been well V'S grounded. Kkrl Koop had resolved that; I should no longer be permitted to seek/qf| a solution of that weird, mastery. His .crafty vengeance haaYdt fallen upon me. I was held i n deadly' embrace, for I liad / been entrapped. " *t| - I felt my strength failing and my head bursting, when; of a sudden. I wag ~ startled,, amazed, for a strange thing Had'happened. (To bo con tinned tomorrow.) '^4 •0 ' -• " • h