Edgar Wallace - Blue Hand

“Did I say anything about—a man?” asked the old woman suspiciously. She had forgotten! Eunice forced the lie to her lips.

“No,” she replied, so loudly that anybody but this muddled woman would have known she was not speaking the truth.

“Be careful of my son,” said Mrs. Groat after a while. “Don’t cross him. He’s not a bad lad, not a bad lad “—she shook her head and glanced slyly at the girl. “He is like his father in many ways.”

“Mr. Groat?” said Eunice, and felt inexpressively mean at taking advantage of the woman’s infirmity, but she steeled her heart with the thought that Jim must benefit by her knowledge.

“Groat,” sneered, the old woman contemptuously, “that worm. No—yes, of course he was Groat. Who else could he be; who else?” she asked, her voice rising wrathfully.

There was a sound outside and she turned her head and listened.

“You won’t leave me alone. Miss Weldon, until the nurse comes back, will you?” she whispered with pathetic eagerness. “You promise me that?”

“Why, of course I promise you,” said Eunice, smiling; “that is why I am here, to keep you company.”

The door handle turned and the old woman watched it, fascinated. Eunice heard her audible gasp as Digby came in. He was in evening dress and smoking a cigarette through a long holder.

He seemed for the moment taken aback by the sight of Eunice and then smiled.

“Of course, it is the nurse’s night out, isn’t it? How are you feeling tonight, mother?”

“Very well, my boy,” she quavered, “very well indeed. Miss Weldon is keeping me company.”

“Splendid,” said Digby. “I hope Miss Weldon hasn’t been making your flesh creep.”

“Oh, no,” said the girl, shocked, “of course I haven’t. How could I?”

“I was wondering whether you had been telling mother of our mysterious visitor,” he laughed as he pulled up an easy chair and sat down. “You don’t mind my smoke, mother, do you?”

Eunice thought that even if old Jane Groat had objected it would not have made the slightest difference to her son, but the old woman shook her head and again turned her pleading eyes on Eunice.

“I should like to catch that lady,” said Digby, watching a curl of smoke rise to the ceiling.

“What lady, my boy?” asked Mrs. Groat.

“The lady who has been wandering loose round this house at night, leaving her mark upon the panels of my door.”

“A burglar,” said the old woman, and did not seem greatly alarmed.

Digby shook his head.

“A woman and a criminal, I understand. She left a clear finger-print, and Scotland Yard have had the photograph and have identified it with that of a woman who served a sentence in Holloway Gaol.”

A slight noise attracted Eunice and she turned to look at Jane Groat.

She was sitting bolt upright, her black eyes staring, her face working convulsively.

“What woman?” she asked harshly. “What are you talking about?’”

Digby seemed as much surprised as the girl to discover the effect the statement had made upon his mother.

“The woman who has been getting into this house and making herself a confounded nuisance with her melodramatic signature.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Groat with painful slowness.

“She has left the mark of a Blue Hand on my door—”

Before he could finish the sentence his mother was on her feet, staring down at him with terror in her eyes.

“A Blue Hand!” she cried wildly. “What was that woman’s name?”

“According to the police report, Madge Benson,” said Digby.

For a second she glared at him wildly.

“Blue Hand,” she mumbled, and would have collapsed but for the fact that Eunice had recognized the symptoms and was by her side and took her in her strong young arms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

OUTSIDE the door in the darkened passage a man was listening intently. He had trailed Digby Groat all that evening, and had followed him into the house. Hearing a movement of footsteps within, he slipped into a side passage and waited. Eunice flew past the entrance to the passage and Jim Steele thought it was time that he made a move. In a few minutes the house would be aroused, for he guessed that the old woman had collapsed. It was a desperate, mad enterprise of his, to enter the great household at so early an hour, but he had a particular reason for wishing to discover the contents of a letter which he had seen slipped into Digby’s hand that night.

Jim had been following him without success until Digby Groat had alighted at Piccadilly Circus apparently to buy a newspaper. Then a stranger had edged close to him and Jim had seen the quick passage of the white envelope. He meant to see that letter.

He reached the ground floor in safety and hesitated. Should he go into the laboratory whither Digby was certain to come, or should he—? A hurried footstep on the stairs above decided him: he slipped through the door leading to Digby’s study. Hiding-place there was none: he had observed the room when he had been in there a few days previously. He was safe so long as nobody came in and turned on the lights. Jim heard the footsteps pass the door, and pulled his soft felt hat further over his eyes. The lower part of his face he had already concealed with a black silk handkerchief, and if the worst came to the worst, he could battle his way out and seek safety in flight. Nobody would recognize him in the old grey suit he wore, and the soft collarless shirt. It would not be a very noble end to the adventure, but it would be less ignominious than being exposed again to the scorn of Eunice.

Suddenly his heart beat faster. Somebody was coming into the library. He saw the unknown open the door and he crouched down so that the big library table covered him from observation. Instantly the room was flooded with light; Jim could only see the legs of the intruder, and they were the legs of Digby Groat. Digby moved to the table, and Jim heard the tear of paper as an envelope was slit, and then an exclamation of anger from the man.

“Mr. Groat, please come quickly!”

It was the voice of Eunice calling from the floor above, and Digby hurried out, leaving the door open. He was scarcely out of sight before Jim had risen; his first glance was at the table. The letter lay as Digby had thrown it down, and he thrust it into his pocket. In a second he was through the doorway and in the passage. Jackson was standing by the foot of the stairs looking up, and for the moment he did not see Jim; then, at the sight of the masked face, he opened his mouth to shout a warning, and at that instant Jim struck at him twice, and the man went down with a crash.

“What is that?” said Digby’s voice, but Jim was out of the house, the door slammed behind him, and was racing along the sidewalk toward Berkeley Square, before Digby Groat knew what had happened. He slackened his pace, turned sharp to the right, so that he came back on his track, and stopped under a street light to read the letter.

Parts of its contents contained no information for him. But there was one line which interested him:

“Steele is trailing you: we will fix him tonight.”

He read the line again and smiled as he walked on at a more leisurely pace.

Once or twice he thought he was being followed, and turned round, but saw nobody. As he strolled up Portland Place, deserted at this hour of the night save for an occasional car, his suspicion that he was being followed was strengthened. Two men, walking one behind the other, and keeping close to the railings, were about twenty yards behind him.

“I’ll give you a run for your money, my lads,” muttered Jim, and crossing Marylebone Road, he reached the loneliest part of London, the outer circle of Regent’s Park. And then he began to run: and Jim had taken both the sprint and the two-mile at the ‘Varsity sports. He heard swift feet following and grinned to himself. Then came the noise of a taxi door shutting. They had picked up the “crawler” he had passed.