Thorne Guy
The City in the Clouds

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was just three weeks after the murder of Pu-Yi, and once more I sat in my chambers in Piccadilly. The day had been cloudy, and now, late in the afternoon, a heavy fog had descended upon the town through which fell a cold and intermittent rain.

Up there, in the City in the Clouds, perhaps the sun was pouring down upon its spires and cupolas, but London, Piccadilly, was lowering and sad.

Lord Arthur Winstanley and Captain Pat Moore had just left me, both of them glum and silent. It went to my heart not to take them into my full confidence, but to do so was impossible. I had told them much of the recent events in the City – I could not tell them everything, for they would not have understood. Certainly I could have relied upon their absolute discretion, but, in view of what was going to happen that very night, I was compelled to keep my own counsel. They had not lived through what I had recently. Their minds were not tuned, as mine was, to the sublime disregard and aloofness from English law which obtained in Morse's gigantic refuge. Certainly neither of them would have agreed to what I proposed to do that night.

Preston came quietly into the library. He pulled the curtains and made up the fire. The face of Preston was grim and disapproving. He looked much as he looked when – what ages ago it seemed! – I departed his comfortable care to become the landlord of the "Golden Swan."

"I'm not at home to any one, Preston," I said, "except to Mr. Sliddim, who ought to be here in a few minutes. Of course, that doesn't apply to Mr. Rolston."

"Very good, Sir Thomas, thank you, Sir Thomas," said Preston, scowling at the mention of the name. Poor fellow, he didn't in the least understand why I should be receiving the furtive and melancholy Sliddim so often, and should sit with him in conference for long hours! Afterwards, when it was all over, I interrogated my faithful servant, and the state of his mind during that period proved to have been startling.

This seems the place in which to explain exactly what had happened up to date.

When Midwinter had escaped, we found the corpse of poor old Professor Chang, and the whole plan was revealed to us. Pu-Yi had been shot through the heart. His death must have been instantaneous. For several days Morse was in a terrible state of depression and remorse. He said that there was a curse upon him, and it was with the greatest difficulty that Rolston and I could bring him into a more reasonable frame of mind. The long strain had worn down even that iron resolution, but, for Juanita's sake, I knew that I must stand by him to the end.

Accordingly, there was nothing else for it, Rolston and I took entire charge of everything. I had never felt inclined to go back from the very beginning. Now my resolution was firm to see it through to the end.

Rolston pursued his own plans, and London very shortly knew that Gideon Mendoza Morse and his lovely daughter were about to reappear in the world. It gave my little, red-haired friend intense pleasure to organize this mild press campaign from the office of the Evening Special. I placed him in complete control, to the intense joy of Miss Dewsbury and the disgust of the older members of the staff. Be that as it may, the thing was done, and every one knew that Birmingham House had been taken by the millionaire.

It was then, having organized things as perfectly as I could at the City, placing Kwang-Su, the gigantic gate-keeper of the ground inclosure, in charge of the staff, that I myself descended into the world as unobtrusively as possible. For a day or two I remained in seclusion at the "Golden Swan," and during those two days saw no one but the Honest Fool, Mrs. Abbs, my housekeeper, and – Sliddim, the private inquiry agent.

Personally, while I quite appreciated the fellow's skill in his own dirty work, and while indeed I owed him a considerable debt in the matter of Bill Rolston's first disappearance, I disliked him too much ever to have thought of him as a help in the very serious affair on which I was engaged. It was Rolston, as usual, who changed my mind. He saw farther than I did. He realized the essential secrecy and fidelity of the odd creature whom chance had unearthed from among the creeping things of London, and in the end he became an integral part of the plot.

He was told, of course, no more than was necessary. He was not by any means in our full confidence. But he was given a part to play, and promised a reward, if he played it well, that would make him independent for life. Let me say at once that he fulfilled his duty with admirable skill, and, when he received his check from Mr. Morse, vanished forever from our ken. I have no doubt that he is spying somewhere or other on the globe at this moment, but I have no ambition to meet him again.

Mr. Sliddim, considerably furbished up in personal appearance, was made caretaker at Birmingham House in Berkeley Square. He had not been in that responsible position for more than ten days when our fish began to nibble at the bait.

In a certain little public house by some mews at the back of Berkeley Square, a little public house which Mr. Sliddim was instructed – and needed no encouragement – to frequent, he was one day accosted by a tall, middle-aged man with a full, handsome face and a head of curling, gray hair. This man was dressed in a seedy, shabby-genteel style, and soon became intimate with our lure.

Certainly, to give him his due, Sliddim must have been a supreme actor in his way. He did the honest, but intensely stupid caretaker to the life. Mark Antony Midwinter was completely taken in and pumped our human conduit for all he was worth, until he was put in possession of an entirely fictitious set of circumstances, arranged with the greatest care to suit my plans.

I shall not easily forget the evening when Sliddim slunk into my dining-room and described the scene which told us we had made absolutely no mistake and that our fish was definitely hooked. It seems that the good Sliddim had gradually succumbed to the repeated proffer of strong waters on the part of "Mr. Smith," his new friend. He had bragged of his position, only lamenting that some days hence it was to come to an end, when, in the evening, Mr. Mendoza Morse, his daughter, and a staff of servants were to enter the house simultaneously. Sliddim, the most consistent whisky-nipper I have ever seen – and I had some curious side-lights on that question when I was landlord of the "Golden Swan" – was physically almost incapable of drunkenness, but he simulated it so well in the little pub at the back of the Square that Mark Antony Midwinter made no ado about taking the latchkey of Birmingham House area door from his pocket and making a waxen impression of it.

Rolston and I knew that we were "getting very hot," as the children say when they are playing Hunt-the-Slipper, and another visit from Sliddim confirmed it. The plan of our enemy was perfectly clear to our minds. He would enter the house by means of the key an hour or two before Morse and the servants were due, conceal himself within it, and do what he had to do in the silent hours of the night.

It was quite certain that he believed Morse now felt himself secure, and no doubt Midwinter had arranged a plan for his escape from Berkeley Square, when his vengeance was complete, as ingenious and thoroughgoing as that prepared for his literal flight from the City in the Clouds.

And now, on this very evening, I was to throw the dice in a desperate game with this human tiger.

"It is for to-night certain, sir," said Sliddim when he arrived. "I've let him know that I am leaving the house for a couple of hours this evening, between eight and ten, to see my old mother in Camden Town. At eleven he supposes that the servants are arriving, and at midnight Mr. and Miss Morse. A professional friend of mine is watching our gent very carefully. He is at present staying at a small private hotel in Soho, and I should think you had better come to the house about seven, on foot, and directly you ring I'll let you in. I've promised to meet our friend at the little public house in the mews at eight, for just one drink – he wants to be certain that I am really out of the way – and I should say that he would be inside Birmingham House within a quarter of an hour afterwards."

Rolston came in before the fellow went, and a few more details were discussed, which brought the time up to about six o'clock.

And then I had a most unpleasant and difficult few minutes. My faithful little lieutenant defied me for the first time since I had known him.

"I can't tell what time I shall be back," I said, "but I shall want you to be at the end of the telephone wire – there are plenty of telephones in Birmingham House."

"But I am going too, Sir Thomas," he said quickly.

I shook my head. "No," I said, "I must go through this alone."

"But it's impossible! You must have some one to help you, Sir Thomas! It is madness to meet that devil alone in an empty house. It's absolutely unnecessary, too. I must go with you. I owe him one for the blow he gave me when he escaped from the Safety-room at the City, and, besides – "

"Bill Rolston," I said, "the essence of fidelity is to obey orders. I owe more to you than I can possibly say! Without you, I dread to think what might have happened to Miss Morse and her father. But on this occasion I am adamant. You will be far more use to me waiting here, ready to carry out any instructions that may come over the wire."

"Please, Sir Thomas, if I ever have done anything, as you say, let me come with you to-night."

His voice broke in a sob of entreaty, but I steeled myself and refused him.

I must say he took it very well when he saw that there was no further chance of moving me.

"Very well then, Sir Thomas," he said, "if it must be so, it must be. I will be back here at seven, and wait all night if necessary."

With that, his face clouded with gloom, he went away and I was left alone.

Doubtless you will have gathered my motive? It would have been criminal to let Rolston, or any one else, have a share in this last adventure. To put it in plain English, I determined, at whatever risk to myself, to kill Mark Antony Midwinter.

There was nothing else for it. The law could not be invoked. While he lived, my girl's life would be in terrible danger. The man had to be destroyed, as one would destroy a mad dog, and it was my duty, and mine alone, to destroy him. If I came off worst in the encounter, well, Morse still had skilled defenders. The risk, I knew, was considerable, but it seemed that I held the winning cards, for within two hours Midwinter would step into a trap.

When I had killed him I had my own plans as to the disposal of the body. It was arranged that a considerable number of Chinese servants from the City should arrive at eleven. If I knew those bland, yellow ruffians, it would not be a difficult thing to dispose of Midwinter's remains, either on the spot or by conveyal to Richmond. Another alternative was that I should shoot him in self-defense, as an ordinary burglar. Certainly the law would come in here, but it would be justifiable homicide and be merely a three days' sensation. I had to catch my hare first – the method of cooking it could be left till afterwards.

In a drawer in my writing-table were letters to various people, including my solicitor and my two friends, Pat Moore and Arthur Winstanley. There was a long one, also, to Juanita. Everything was arranged and in order. I am not aware that I felt any fear or any particular emotion, save one of deep, abiding purpose. Nothing would now have turned me from what I proposed to do. I had spent long thought over it and I was perfectly convinced that it was an act of justice, irregular, dangerous to myself, but morally defendable by every canon of equity and right. The man was a murderer over and over again. To-night he would receive the honor of a private execution. That was all.

When I left my chambers, with an automatic pistol, a case of sandwiches, and a flask of whisky-and-water, the rain was descending in a torrent. The street was empty and dismal, and Berkeley Square itself a desert. I don't think I saw a single person, except one police-constable in oilskins sheltering under an archway, till I arrived at Birmingham House. The well-known façade of the mansion was blank and cheerless. All the blinds were down; there was not a sign of occupation. I rang, the door opened immediately, and I slipped in.

"I must be off, Sir Thomas," said Sliddim. "If you go through the door on the far side of the inner hall beyond the grand staircase, you will find yourself in a short passage with a baize door at the farther end. Push this open, and you will be in a small lobby. The door immediately to your left is that of the butler's pantry. It commands the service stairs and lift to the kitchen and servants' rooms. Standing in the doorway you will see the head of any one coming up the stairs, and – " he gave a sickly grin and something approaching a reptilian wink. Sliddim was an unpleasant person, and I never liked him less than at that moment.

With another whisper he opened the door a few inches and writhed out.

I was left alone in Birmingham House.

It was the queerest possible sensation, and as I crossed the great inner hall, with its tapestries and gleaming statuary, lit now by two single electric bulbs, I don't deny that my heart was beating a good deal faster than was pleasant. There is always something ghostly about an empty house, more especially when it is fully furnished and ready for occupation. The absence of all life is uncanny, and one seems to feel that it is hidden, not absent, and that at any moment a door may open and some enigmatic stranger be standing there with an unpleasant welcome in his eyes.

Well, I slunk through all the glories of the grand hall, passed down the passage, and came out into the servants' quarters. The little lobby, the floor of which was covered with cork matting, was well lit, and so were the stairs. I peered over the rail, but could not see to the bottom; but, standing in the door of the room called the butler's pantry, I saw that I could put a bullet through the head of any one appearing, before he could have the slightest inkling of my presence, before he could slew round, even, to face me.

The butler's pantry itself was a fair-sized, comfortable room, with a carpet on the floor and a couple of worn, padded armchairs by the fireplace. The walls were hung with photographs; on one side was a business-like roll-top desk, and in a corner a large safe which obviously contained the plate in daily use in the great household. I knew that the bulk of the valuables were stored in a strong room in Chancery Lane.

Upon the table Mr. Sliddim had thoughtfully placed a heavy cut-glass decanter half full of whisky, a siphon, and —glasses! The whisky was all right, but did he expect me to hobnob with Antony Midwinter, to speed the parting guest, as it were, with a stirrup-cup? It was difficult to suspect him of such grim humor.

I looked at my watch. There was still a good half-hour before Midwinter and Sliddim were due to meet in the little public house behind the Square. I saw that my pistol was handy, and sat down in one of the armchairs by the fireside. A pipe of the incomparable "John Cotton" would not be amiss, I thought, wondering if I should ever taste its fragrance again, and for some minutes I sat and smoked, placidly enough. Then, I suppose a quarter of an hour or so must have elapsed, I began to fidget in my chair.

The house was so terribly still! Still, but not quite silent! Time, that was ticking away so rapidly, had a score of small voices. There was the faint noise of taxicabs out in the Square, the drip of the rain, an occasional stealthy creak from the furniture, the scurry of a mouse in the wainscot; the more remote chambers of my brain began to fill with riot, and once my nerves jerked like a hooked fish.

And even now I do not think it was fear. Terror, perhaps – there is a subtle distinction – but not craven fear. I think, perhaps, it was more the sense of something coldly evil that might even now be approaching through the fog and rain, a lost soul inspired with cunning, hatred, and ferocity, whom I must meet in deadly contact within a short, but unknown, space of time…

"This won't do at all!" I thought, and then my eye fell on Mr. Sliddim's hospitable preparations. I got up, went round to the other side of the table, put my pistol down upon it, and mixed a stiff peg.

My back was now to the open door, and I was just lifting the glass to my lips, eagerly enough, I am afraid, when, very softly, something descended upon each of my shoulders.

I had not heard a sound of any sort, save the gurgle of the aerated water in the glass, but now a shriek like that of a frightened woman rang out into the room, and it came from me.

I was gripped horribly by the back of the throat, whirled round with incredible speed and force, and flung heavily against the opposite wall, falling sideways into an armchair, gasping for breath and my eyes staring out of my head.

Then I saw him. Mark Antony Midwinter was standing on the other side of the table, smiling at me. He wore a fashionable morning coat and a silk hat. Under his left arm was a gold-headed walking-cane, and he carried his gloves in his left hand. In the right was the gleaming blue-black of an automatic pistol, pointed at my heart.

At that, I pulled myself together. In an instant I knew that I had failed. The brute must already have been in the house when Sliddim admitted me – he had outwitted all of us!

"Ah!" he said, "Sir Thomas Kirby! You have crossed my path very many times of late, Sir Thomas, and I have long wished to make your acquaintance."

His voice was suave and cultured. The rather full, clean-shaved face had elements of fineness – many women would have called him a handsome man. But in his dull and opaque eyes there was such a glare of cold malignity, such unutterable cruelty and hate, that the whole room grew like an ice-house in a moment; for it is not often that any man sees a veritable fiend of hell looking out of the eyes of another.

"You have come a little earlier than I expected," I managed to say, but my voice rang cracked and thin.

"It is a precaution that I frequently take, Sir Thomas, and one very much justified in the present instance. To tell the truth, I had little or no suspicion that I was walking into a trap – that much to you! But a life of shocks" – here he laughed pleasantly, but the little steel disk pointed at my heart never wavered a hair's breadth – "has taught me always to have something in reserve. I see that I shall not have the pleasure of settling accounts with Mr. Gideon Morse and his daughter to-night. Well, that can wait. Meanwhile, I propose within a few seconds to remove another obstacle from my path – do you think the mandarin, Pu-Yi, will be waiting for you at the golden gates, Sir Thomas Kirby?"

So this was the end! I braced myself to meet it.

"How long?" I said.

"I will count a hundred slowly," he answered.

He began, and I stared dumbly at the pistol. I could not think – I could not commend my soul to my Maker even. The function of thought was entirely arrested.

"Thirty … thirty-one … thirty-two!"

And then I suddenly burst out laughing.

My laughter, I know, was perfectly natural, full of genuine merriment. Something had happened which seemed to me irresistibly comic. He stopped and stared at me, his face changing ever so little.

"May I ask," he said, "what tickled your sense of humor?"

What had tickled my sense of humor was this. Stealing round from behind him, right under his very nose, so to speak, but quite unseen, was an arm which with infinite care and slowness was removing the heavy cut-glass decanter from the table. It vanished. It reappeared in the air behind him in a flashing diamond and amber circle.

"Have some whisky, Mr. Midwinter," I said, as it descended with a crash upon the side of his head.

Without a sound he sank into a huddled heap out of my sight, hidden by the table.

"You little devil!" I said, staggering to my feet, for Bill Rolston stood there, white-faced and grinning. "I had to come, Sir Thomas," he said, "it wasn't any use."

"Have you killed him, Bill?"

We bent down and made an examination. Midwinter's face was dark and suffused with blood, but his pulses were all right.

"What a pity!" said Rolston. "Help me to get him on to that chair, Sir Thomas, and we'll tie him up. If I had killed him, it would have been so much simpler!"

We dragged the unconscious man to the very armchair where I had sat under the menace of his pistol, and, tearing the tablecloth into strips, tied him securely.

"Fortunately," said Bill, "I didn't break the decanter. The stopper didn't even come out! You look pretty sick, Sir Thomas" – and indeed a horrible feeling of nausea had come over me, and my hands were shaking – "let's each have a drink and then I'll tell you what I think."

We sat down on each side of the table, and I listened to him as if the whole thing were some curious dream. For the second time I had been snatched from the very brink of death, and though I suppose I ought to have been getting used to it my only sensation was one of limpness and collapse.

"Can you do it?" my little friend said, pointing to the pistol between us.

I took it up, weighed it in my hand, half-pointed it at the stiff, red-faced figure in the chair, and laid it down again.

"No, I'm damned if I can!" I answered. And then – I must have been more than half-dazed – I actually said: "You have a go, Bill."

He looked at me in horror.

"Murder him in cold blood! I should never know a moment's peace, Sir Thomas!"

"Well, you nearly did it in hot, and you've just been tempting me – "

"Let us bring him to, if we can," he said, tactfully changing the conversation and advancing upon our friend with the siphon of soda-water.

There was a grotesque horror about the whole of our adventure that night. I laughed weakly as the soda hissed and the stream of aerated water splashed over Midwinter's face.

Before the final gurgle he awoke. His eyes opened without speculation. Then his jaw dropped. For a moment his face was as vacant as a doll's, and then it flared up into a snarl of realization and hatred, only, in another instant, to settle down into a dead calm.

"My turn now," I said.

He knew the game was up. I will do him the justice to say he did not flinch.

"Very well, count a hundred," was his answer, and his eye fell to the two pistols on the table – his own and mine.

I shook my head. "I can't do it – I wish I could!"

"You'll find it quite easy – I speak from experience," he replied, with a desperate, evil grin.

"No. I have talked the situation over with my friend. You are going to die, that is very certain, but not by my hand now, and not, Mr. Midwinter, by the hand of the English law."

He was very quick. Even then he had an inkling of my meaning, for a perceptible shadow fell over his face and his eyes narrowed to slits.

"You mean?"

"We are going to telephone to the City in the Clouds. People will come from there and take you away – that will be easily managed. You will have some form of trial, and then – execution."

I never saw a change from red to white so sudden. That big face suddenly became a hideous, sickly white, toneless and opaque like the belly of a sole.

"You won't deliver me to the Chinese?" he gasped. "You can't know them as I do. They'd take a week killing me! They have horrible secrets – "

His voice died away in a whimper, and if ever I saw a man in deadly terror, it was that man then.

But I hardened my heart. I remembered how Morse and Juanita had suffered for two years at this man's hands. I remembered four murders, to my own knowledge, and I shrugged my shoulders.

"I can't help that. You have made your bed, and you must lie upon it."

"But such a bed!" he murmured, and his head fell forward on his chest.

His arms were bound at the elbow, but he could move the lower portion, and he now brought his right hand to his face.

"I'll telephone," said Bill, and went to the wall by the door where hung the instrument.

I sat gloomily watching the man in the chair.

What was he doing? His jaw was moving up and down. He seemed biting at his wrist.

Suddenly there was a slight, tearing, ripping noise, followed by a jerk backwards of his head and a deep intake of the breath.

"What is he doing?" Rolston said, turning round with the receiver of the telephone at his ear.

Midwinter held out his arm. I saw that the braid round the cuff of his morning coat was hanging in a little strip.

"I told you I always had something in reserve," he said, showing all his teeth as he grinned at me. "Always something up my sleeve – literally, in this case. I have just swallowed a little capsule of prussic acid which – "

If you want to learn of how a man dies who has swallowed hydrocyanic acid – the correct term, I believe – consult a medical dictionary. It is not a pleasant thing to see in actual operation, but, thank heavens, it is speedy!

The sweat was pouring down my face when it was over, but Bill Rolston had not turned a hair.

"Put something over his face, Sir Thomas," he said, "and I'll get through to Mr. Morse."