THE TRENCH DAYS: The Collected War Tales of William Le Queux (WW1 Adventure Sagas, Espionage Thrillers & Action Classics). William Le Queux
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words he had heard in the boardroom in the City that afternoon had burned themselves deeply into his brain. Lewin Rodwell was, it seemed, a personal friend of Charles Trustram, the well-known and trusted official to whose push-and-go the nation had been so deeply indebted — the man who had transported so many hundreds of thousands of our Expeditionary Force across the Channel, with all their guns, ammunition and equipment, without a single mishap. It was both curious and startling. What could it all mean?
Thomasson again hammered upon the stout old-fashioned door of polished mahogany.
“Speak, sir! Do speak!” he implored. “Are you all right?”
Still there was no reply.
“He may have fainted!” Jack suggested. “Something may have happened to him!”
“I hope not, sir,” replied the man very anxiously. “I’ll just run outside and see whether the window is open. If so, we might get a ladder.”
The man dashed downstairs and out into the street, but a moment later he returned breathlessly, saying —
“No. Both windows are closed, just as I closed them at dusk. And the curtains are drawn; not a chink of light is showing through. All we can do, I fear, is to force the door.”
“You are quite sure he’s in the room?”
“Positive, sir.”
“Did you see him after Mr Trustram left?”
“No, I didn’t. I let Mr Trustram out, and as he wished me good-night he hailed a passing taxi, and then I went down and read the evening paper. I always have it after the doctor’s finished with it.”
“Well, Thomasson, what is to be done?” asked Sainsbury, essentially a young man of action. “We must get into this room — and at once. I don’t like the present aspect of things a bit.”
“Neither do I, sir. Below I’ve got the jemmy we use for opening packing-cases. We may be able to force the door with that.”
And once again the tall, thin, wiry man disappeared below. Jack Sainsbury did not see how the man, when he had disappeared into the basement, stood in the kitchen his face blanched to the lips and his thin hands trembling.
It was only at the moment when Thomasson was alone that his marvellous self-possession forsook him. On the floor above he remained cool, collected, anxious, and perfectly unruffled. Below, and alone, the cook and housemaid not having returned, they being out for a late evening at the theatre, a craven fear possessed him.
It would have been quite evident to the casual observer that the man, Thomasson, possessed some secret fear of what had occurred in the brief interval between Mr Trustram’s departure and Sainsbury’s arrival. Tall and pale-faced, he stood in the big basement kitchen, with its rows of shining plated covers and plate-racks, motionless and statuesque: his head upon his breast, his teeth set, his cheeks as white as paper.
But only for a moment. A second later he drew a deep breath, nerved himself with a superhuman effort, and then, opening a cupboard, took out a steel tool with an axe-head at one end and a curved and pronged point at the other — very much like a burglar’s jemmy. Such a tool was constructed for strong leverage, and, quite cool as before, he carried it up the two flights of stairs to where Jack stood before the locked door, eager and impatient.
Sainsbury, being the younger of the pair, took it, and inserting the flat chisel-like end into the slight crevice between the stout polished door and the lintel, worked it in with leverage, endeavouring to break the lock from its fastening.
This proved unsuccessful, for, after two or three attempts, the woodwork of the lintel suddenly splintered and gave way, leaving the door locked securely as before.
Time after time he tried, but with no other result than breaking away the lintel of the door.
What mystery might not be contained in that locked room?
His hands trembled with excitement and nervousness. Once he had thought of summoning the police by telephone, but such an action might, he thought, for certain reasons which he knew, annoy his friend the doctor, therefore he hesitated.
Probably Jerrold had fainted, and as soon as they could get at him he would recover and be quite right again. He knew how strenuously he had worked of late at Guy’s, in those wards filled with wounded soldiers. Only two days before, Jerrold had told him, in confidence, that he very much feared a nervous breakdown, and felt that he must get away and have a brief rest.
Because of that, Sainsbury believed that his friend had fainted after his hard day at the hospital, and that as soon as they could reach him all would be well.
But why had he locked the door of his den? For what reason had he desired privacy as soon as Trustram had left him?
Again and again both of them used the steel lever upon the door, until at last, taking it from Thomasson’s hands, Jack placed the bright curved prong half-way between the lock and the ground and, with a well-directed blow, he threw his whole weight upon it.
There was a sharp snap, a crackling of wood, the door suddenly flew back into the room, and the young man, carried by the impetus of his body, fell headlong forward upon the dark red carpet within.
Chapter Four
His Dying Words
When Jack recovered himself he scrambled to his feet and gazed around.
The sight which met both their eyes caused them ejaculations of surprise, for, near the left-hand window, the heavy plush curtains of which were drawn, Dr Jerrold was lying, face downwards and motionless, his arms outstretched over his head.
Quite near lay his pet briar pipe, which had fallen suddenly from his mouth, showing that he had been in the act of smoking as, in crossing the room, he had been suddenly stricken.
Without a word, both Sainsbury and Thomasson fell upon their knees and lifted the prostrate form. The limbs were warm and limp, yet the white face, with the dropped jaw and the aimless, staring eyes, was horrible to behold.
“Surely he’s not dead, sir!” gasped the manservant anxiously, in an awed voice.
“I hope not,” was Sainsbury’s reply. “If so, there’s a mystery here that we must solve.” Then, bending to him, he shook him slightly and cried, “Jerome! Jerome! Speak to me. Jack Sainsbury!”
“I’ll get some water,” suggested Thomasson, and, springing up, he crossed the room to where, upon a side-table, stood a great crystal bowl full of flowers. These he cast aside, and, carrying the bowl across, dashed water into his master’s face.
Sainsbury, who had the doctor’s head raised upon his knee, shook him and repeated his appeal, yet the combined efforts of the pair failed to arouse the prostrate man.
“What can have happened?” queried Jack, gazing into the wide-open, staring eyes of his friend, as he pulled his limp body towards him and examined his hands.
“It’s a mystery, sir — ain’t it?” remarked Thomasson.
“One thing is certain — that the attack was very sudden. Look at his pipe! It’s still warm. He was smoking when, of a sudden, he must have collapsed.”
“I’ll ring up Sir Houston Bird, over in Cavendish Square. He’s the doctor’s greatest friend,” suggested Thomasson, and next moment he disappeared to speak to the well-known pathologist, leaving Sainsbury to gaze around the room of mystery.
It was quite evident that something extraordinary had occurred there in the brief quarter of an hour which had elapsed between Mr Trustram’s departure and Jack’s arrival. But what had taken place was a great and inscrutable mystery.
Sainsbury recollected that strange metallic click he had heard so distinctly.