THE NOVELIST. Held in Ransom

Otago Witness, Issue 3723, 21 July 1925, Page 54

THE NOVELIST.

Held in Ransom

K&yj

Gerald Cumberland.

Author of “The Cypress Chest,” “Set Down in Malice,” “Tlie Poisoner,” Ac., &c.

[Published by {special Arrangement.] [Copyright.]

CHAPTER V. Very soon time ceased to have any significance for Frank. Eive hours migiit have passed, or only the same number of minutes, when he was bxougnt back to acute consciousness by the turning on of the light; a moment later the door opened, and the Princess enit>.ed. You have had plenty of time to think,” she said. “ Yes, but I have not thought.” “That is a pity. You must do your thinking now.” “ I have been too much amused to think. Your methods of trying to get money out of me are really very childish. That absurd gramophone, for example. Hid you imagine for one moment that 1 should Be deceived? ” “ Not at all. But you have heard Miss Stansmore’s voice, and you know what she wishes you to do. That ought to help von in coming to a decision.” “ A decision? About what? ” “ I’ll tell you. I—we—those for whom I am acting are resolved that the ransom shall be paid. And paid it will be—either now or later on—it depends upon yourself. But let me make you more comfortable.” As she spoke she released the steel springs of the chair, and Frank was free to move. But he found himself incredibly stiff. He shook himself slightly, and leaned forward a little, feeling the pleasure-pain of his blood beginning once more to course freely through his veins. “ Is that better? ” she said. “ Thank you.” “ Please hand me over all your cartridges. How many rounds have you? ’ He tore from his pocket all the ammunition he carried, and gave it to her. “ This completes my humiliation,” he said. “ I don’t wish to humiliate you, Mr Mi-chelie. But you force me to do so. The fight between us is not a battle of our wills or of our intellects—it is purely physical. And physical contests are always degrading and humiliating. But, as l was saying, the hour of your payment of the £IO,OOO depends upon yourself. I hope for your own sake, and more particularly for the sake of Miss Stansmore, that you will prove reasonable.” He made a gesture of angry repudiation. “ You dare not touch Miss Stansmore,” he said. “ ‘Dare ’? That is a word unknown to me and to those for whom I work. We ‘ dare ’ do anything. But we like, as far as possible, to be—shall I say humanitarian? For myself I detest violence. Particularly should I dislike having to order my servants t-o be violent towards one whom, like yourself, I respect.” “Your threats leave me absolutely unimpressed, Princess. W T hat is wrong with you is that you fail to realise how extremely foolish your behaviour is. not living in the days of Ivanhoe. Your dark threats mean nothing.” She rose to her feet and walked slowly towards him. When she had reached his chair, she stoppped before him: her arms were dropped in front of her, and her hands gripped each other so tightly that the bones of her fingers seemed on the pcint of bursting through the slun. She was strangely agitated. Her breath came in thick, short gusts. ‘‘Oh, but Mr Mi-chelle, Mr Mi-chelle, I assure you most solemnly that what I say is true. Terrible things will be done to you—and to her—if you are not obedient. Terrible things have been done before—and in this room: things I dare not tell you. I hate it all!—I hate it!—l shrink from it! And yet—and yet I must go through it. I must—l must! I cannot tell you—no—it is impossible. I run a great risk even by talking to you like this. So, I beg of you, I pray you, to consent to this payment.” She stopped speaking, and, as she stopped, began to tremble. Then, with a quick movement, she turned away from him, covering her face with her hands. He sighed uneasily. “You seem to nave some sympathy for me, Princess,” he said; “but the worst of it is I cannot believe a word you say. You ought to be on the stage, for you are a consummate actress. You have deceived me once, and I never allow myself to be deceived twice by the same woman. And, in any caae, what is your sympathy worth, admitting that it is genuine? It is worth nothing. You declare in the same breath that you hate putting your threat* into practice, and that you are resolved to do so.” “You despise me,” she said; “I know you do.” ”1 do. I think you evil.”

She uncovered her lace and turned upon him resignedly. “Very well, then. I cannot help your thoughts. I’m sorry I made anv appeal to you. You shall be dealt with in the same manner as the rest.” “Good. That is as I desire to be dealt with.” She went over to the divan is the corner of the room, took a cigarette from the table at her side, lit it, leaned back against the cushions, and knitted her brows in thought. After a time, she began to speak; her tone and manner were those of a powerful employer giving orders to his clerk. “You will write to your bank,” she said. “You will indicate what stock you wish to sell—your Gieat Western Railways, for example, and your Leeds Corporation, and perhaps your Mydelhoy Gold Mines. But you yourself will know which. of your stock can most quickly be realised. For time is the chief consideration. In writing to your bank you will insist upon this. You will mark your letter ‘Private and confidential,’ and you will provide ffiausible reasons for wishing to have so arge a sum of money in gold. You will write on Hotel Splendide note-paper, and you will authorise your bank to pay over the money to the bearer of your letter, whom you will introduce to your bank manager as an old and trusted friend.’’ She stopped, as though expecting Frank to make some remark. But he remained silent. She looked at him. An yiscTutable smile was playing- about his * ps; it angered her; she felt she was being treated with contempt. “ You heard what I said? ” she asked. Still smiling, he inclined his head. “ Very weii, then. You will find writing materials on the desk by your side. Also a supply of Hotel Splendide notepaper I will leave you for half an hour. It is very late, and perhaps you are tired; nevertheless, you must write your letter at onoe, for every hour is precious.” He turned to the desk as though willing to obey her orders, and as he did so she slid off the divan and walked slowly to the door. He turned his head to watch her. What grace there was in her every movement! What queenliness and beauty! Who could guess that in that head, with its luminous, candid eyes, there lay so much vileness and cruelty? Yet was she entirely evil? Perhaps not. Perhaps as she herself had insisted, she did indeed hate her life and all the sordid luxury it entailed. As she turned the handle of the door she gave him a look in which there was a curious tenderness—a look almost of self-surrender. The door closed behind her. On the instant he was on his feet. Quickly and noiselessly he moved about the room, drawing aside the tapestries that draped the walls. To every prisoner his place of confinement is a matter of supreme interest, for he always hopes there is a way of escape. It was for a way of escape that Frank Mitchell wafc now look ing. In less than a minute he had satisfied himself there were no windows. It was as he had thought. Near the ceiling were two small apertures by means of which the room was ventilated. Nor was there another door. The only means of exit, it was quite evident, was the door by which ho had entered. And that door was, no doubt, locked in some secret manner. He returned to the desk and sat down. Escane. it seemed, was impossible. Well, it did not very much matter. He fully intended, of course, to write the letter, for onlv bv that moans criuld he commn. niento bis whereabouts to the outside world : but he recognised it would be unwise to write ’t without first offering considerable resistance, for if he did so bis complaisance /nmht verv easily excite the susneions of Princess Warenski. But already he bad in his own mind begun to frame the letter in order that, when the time for writing bad arrived, be would be atyle to introduce bis code with natural ease and quickness. The silent entrance of the Princess interrupted his meditation. “You have finished, I see,” she said, coming to his side. “Vo,” he answered, *‘l have not begun.” “Vou find the letter difficult?” “I find it more than difficult. It is impossible for me to write it.” He rose. “I am very tired,” he said. . “Do you provide vnur victims with sleeping apartments? Tf so, perhaps one of vour fellowcriminals will show me mine.” He had expected an outburst of anger: indeed, his contemptuous, amused tone had

been purposely assumed in order to provoke it. But she answered him with a note of real sadness and regret in her voice, “I am dreadfully sorry, ’ she said. “I am sorry because you will have to suffer. It is foolish of you, Mr Mi-chelle. Before you sleep, that letter must be written.” “What do you intend to do?” he said. “You will soon know. You will give way—you v\ ill obey. They all do.” “We shall see.” She hovered a few moments by his side, hoping he would relent. But lie made no sign. “Very well, then. W'hat must be, must be.” Again she 'eft him. And now the spirit 4 fight was aroused within him. He did not believe for one moment that they would touch Audrey; indeed, he felt convinced she was still in England, for the difficulties in the way of abducting her across the Channel were stupendous. No, they intended to torture him. Very well. Me would resist to the last ounce of his strength. He was soon to learn that his conjecture was right. He was in the act of taking off Ins coat when the two deaf mutes he had already seen entered the room; they were accompanied by a typical bruiser—a great, hulking fellow with the face and chest of a bulldog. He closed the door. The three men watchfully approached Frank, who stood regarding them with amused indifference. .Not- a word was spoken. The bruiser came first. When within a couple of yards of his victim, Frank leapt at him with the swiftness and fierceness of a tiger. Catching him a clean uppercut on his chin that sent him staggering backwards, Frank, without a second’s pause, followed up the attack with a crushing blow between the eyes with his left. The suddenness of the assault ' ok the deaf and dumb men so much by siu prise that for the moment they were helpless; but they quickly realised the situation, and in h tlash were upon nnr hero. But Frank, quick as lightning, leaped over the chair which an hour oefore had imprisoned him. and snatching up and gripping a huge brass statuette from the mantelpiece, raised it aloft, ready to strike. The bruiser, snarling like a wounded animal, recovered himself. 'He pulled his two confederates aside and signed to them to leave him to fight Frank alone. They obeyed him at once, standing in readiness to give , their help should it prove necessary, frank had the advantages of youth, fitness and highly-trained skill; his antagonist was fleshy and flabby with over-eating and over-drinking, but he had enormous breadth of shoulder and depth of chest, and his sheer brute strength was colossal. Blit this was no mere boxing contest; it was a desperate and terrible fight between a would-be torturer and his vic- . tim. The bruiser advanced upon Frank with caution, intending to knock him out by a blow beneath the belt, when almost within striking distance he lurched forward, and, while making a feint with his left, aimed with his right at the pit of Frank’s stomach. But the younger man had read the brute’s intention in his eye; he was prepared for it; and, before the blow could reach him, he turned suddenly aside with the rippling motion of an eel, and brought the brass statuette down on his enemy’s forehead. There was a sound of breaking bone, and, after staggering and tottering for a few moments, like an ox stricken in the slaugft-ter-house, he fell prone upon the floor. There ensued a terrific struggle between the two deaf and dumb men and their victim. The criminals rushed upon him simultaneously, one from the front, the other from the rear. One tried to choke him to unconsciousness, while the other fisted him over the heart witli all his strength. It was at this moment that the door opened and the Princess stood on the threshold. At the sight that met her eyes her cheeks assumed a deadly pallor, and her eyes became distended with horror. All the maternal and protective instincts of her nature were roused, and instinctively she tried to rush forward to Frank’s help. But her trembling legs could scarcely support her body, and she found it impossible to move. The dreadfulness of the scene was made greater by the short, animal-like sounds that came from the three men: their breath seemed torn from their bodies. But Frank was visibly weakening. His struggles to free himself became less and less violent; the fierce poundinrr upon his heaH was having its dire effect; suddenly, with a erv that was half a groan, he sank to the floor. The Princess, overcome with a pity so intense that it seemed to stab at her very vitals, turned from the sight and left the room. The struggle over, the two men went to work with business-like quickness. Having carried Frank to the chair thev pressed the button that released the steel arms, and in a moment he was imprisoned. Thev next turned their attention to their fellow-criminal, who still lav motionless near the fireplace. His head was covered with blond, his eyes were closed, and his breathing was so faint that it was scarcely perceptible. Having lifted him gently thev carried him from the room, and fnr a few minutes Frank was left alone with his thoughts. He had never entirely lost consciousness, and he nuicklv recovered complete possession of all his faculties. All bodily pain was forgotten in the flood of exultation *thafc overpowered him. He cnioved a fierce pride in his oonouest of the bruiser. The result of the fierht with the three men had been inevitable: from the beginning it had been a losing contest; nevertheless he had given better than he had received, and at least one of his antagonists would remember that night for tlie rest of his life. But though Frank knew well he was about to undergo a soul-searing ordeal, and though he had steeled himself to en-

dure it, he had only a faint conception of wuat destiny was about to submit into. The two men entered. They approached him, released his arms, removed ms coat, and turned up the snut-sleeve ot his leit arm. A second later he was again firmly pinioned. Then, without tne loss of a moment, they applied a white-hot iron to the flesh of his upper arm. At that sudden impact of excruciating pain something in his brain seemed to snap. “ You vile hell-hounds 1 ” he groaned between his clenched teeth. “ You devils spawn! May you be dammed for ever! ” It did not occur to him that they could hear no word he spoke. His spirit, indeed, was submerged beneath a sea of pain. At the end of a few seconds they had finished their foul, inhuman work. They had done it impassively, as though executing any ordinary task of the day. Burn and bred in cruelty, impervious to the suffering of others, they felt no compunction in earning their bread by so abominable a means. But though Frank was in such terrible physical agony, he was resolved to reveal nothing of his suffering to the Princess. He would deprive her of any satisfaction she might feel at seeing him brought to submission. Yet submit he must. He had, of course, intended from the very first to submit, for only by writing the letter demanded of him could he hope to make known his whereabouts to the police and thus secure Audrey’s and his own freedom. Calling all his powers of endurance to his aid, and summoning his last ounce of courage, he tried to smile—and succeeded. Yes; he could and would bear it. When she appeared, he would seem indifferent. She should not be allowed to gloat over him. But when at length Princess Warenski arrived her face showed no sign of satisfaction. Instead, it was pale and haggard. Since Frank had last seen her she seemed to have been through a world of suffering. She gazed at him with large eves of sorrow. The smell of burnt flesh hung in the air and sickened her. “ Thank God that is over 1 ” she said, moving to one side in order that he might not see her face. . “I hope I killed that clumsy bruiser of youre,” he said amiably. “He had to obey orders,” she said. All of us are compelled to.” M “He obeyed them very inefficiently, said Frank, with great calmness. should engage a more skilful man.’ “You will allow me to bandage your arm. I have brought ointments and linen.” . , He found it almost impossible to keep up his pose of indifference. He longed to pour out his anger and detestation upon her—longed to hurt and shame her * longed to drag her in the dust and trample upon her. But no!— he*must not do that! For, to exhibit any depth of feeling would be merely an acknowledgement that she had power to hurt him. She came to his side carrying a small table on which she placed a roll of soft ffnen, p-ts of ointment, scissors and safety pins. The upper part of his left arm, still pinioned, was scorched almost black; it was terribly swollen, and the flesh was inflamed from shoulder to elbow. He looked at her with veiled hostility. “Don’t come near me!' he said. ‘‘But—you must lot me bandage you. What I have here will soothe you.” “Don t come near me. You poison the atmosphere. If my arm must be bandaged, send one of your underlings to do it.” “But I am skilful ” “I don’t want your skill.” “You don’t understand. Mr Mi-chelle. I hate to see you in pain. I loathe myself for what has happened. But it had to happen—there was no other way. You believe that, don’t vou ? You believe that I had no choice—that I was compelled to order—to order—this.” She pointed to his arm. “I believe nothing—l know nothing,” he said. “I have no feeling for you save contempt. I don’t even hate you, for you are too miserable and weak for hatred. At one moment you deliberately commit a foul action, and the next moment you pretend to regret it. One mav have a kind of respect for a woman who has the courage of her own wickedness, but when she comes whining round as you do—oh! you make me sick.” Tie saw her wince, and he exalted at the pain he was able to cause her. Yes—he had power over her. In her own tortured wav she felt tenderness for him. He could feel it. She wanted to gain his good opinion. She desired his forgiveness. He divined that she loved him—her eves revealed her love, the very tone of her voice proclaimed it. He smiled inwardly to himself—smiled grimly. He would use her love. Later on he would use it in order to gain his freedom : and he would use it now in order to wound her. “Very well,” said she. “But I have no one to send to you except one of the men who—who hurt you.” ‘Send him. He is at least honest. And he will not pretend to regret what he has done.” With a gesture of humility, almost of despair, she left him. But before she had reached the door she returned, and, having pressed the necessary button, released him. He rose at once, and with a shrug of his shoulders, walked as far away from her as the limits of the small room would allow. He felt desperately weak, and ho tottered as he walked. Noticing this, she advanced upon him quickly, as though to support him. “Let me alone!” he shouted, angrily. “Do not touch me! I can’t bear you near me! I will not be fouled bv your touch.” He had an almost ungovernable desire to scream with pain. Fire burned at and consumed his arm; fire burned in all his body. At his words she fell back as though he had struck her a blow between the eyes. She left the room, but in less than a minute she returned with one of the deaf