The Bittermeads Mystery/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
A WOMAN AND A MAN
The girl stirred. It was as though some knowledge of the slow opening of the door had penetrated to her consciousness before as yet she actually saw or heard anything.
She rose to her feet, drying her eyes with her handkerchief, and as she was moving to a drawer near to get a clean one her glance fell on the partially-open door.
“I thought I shut it,” she said aloud in a puzzled manner.
She crossed the floor to the door and closed it with a push from her hand and in the passage outside Dunn stood still, not certain what to do next.
But for that photograph he might have gone quietly away, giving up the reckless plan that had formed itself so suddenly in his mind while he watched the burglar at work.
That photograph, however, with its suggestion that he stood indeed on the brink of the solution of the mystery, seemed a summons to him to go on. It was as though a voice from the dead called him to continue on his task to punish and to save, and slowly, very slowly, with an infinite caution, he turned again the handle of the door and still very slowly, still with the same infinite caution, he pushed back the door the merest fraction of an inch at a time so that not even one watching could have said that it moved.
When he had it once more so far open that he could see within, he bent forward to look. The girl was beginning her preparations for the night now. She had assumed a long, comfortable-looking dressing-gown and, standing in front of the mirror, she had just finished brushing her hair and was beginning to fasten it up in a long plait. He could see her face in the mirror; her deep, sad eyes, swollen with crying, her cheeks still tear-stained, her mouth yet quivering with barely-repressed emotion.
He was still watching her when, as if growing uneasy, she turned her head and glanced over her shoulder, and though he moved back so quickly that she did not catch sight of him, she saw that the door was open once more.
“What can be the matter with the door?” she exclaimed aloud, and she crossed the room towards it with a quick and somewhat impatient movement.
But this time, instead of closing it, she pulled it open and found herself face to face with Dunn.
He did not speak or move, and she stood staring at him blankly. Slowly her mouth opened as though to utter a cry that, however, could not rise above her fluttering throat. Her face had taken on the pallor of death, her great eyes showed the awful fear she felt.
Still without speaking, Dunn stepped forward into the room and, closing the door, stood with his back to it.
She shrank away and put her hand upon a chair, but for the support of which she must certainly have fallen, for her limbs were trembling so violently they gave her little support.
“Don't hurt me,” she panted.
In truth he presented a strange and terrifying appearance. The unkempt hair that covered his face and through which his keen eyes glowed like fire, gave him an unusual and formidable aspect. In one hand he held the ugly-looking jemmy he had taken from the burglar, and the new clothes he had donned, ill-fitting and soiled, served to accentuate the ungainliness of his form.
The frightened girl was not even sure that he was human, and she shrank yet further away from him till she sank down upon the bed, dizzy with fear and almost swooning.
As yet he had not spoken, for his eyes had gone to the mantelpiece on which he saw that the photograph signed with the name “Charley Wright,” did not now stand upright, but had fallen forward on its face so that one could no longer see what it represented.
It must have fallen just as he entered the room and this seemed to him an omen, though whether of good or ill, he did not know.
“Who are you?” the girl stammered. “What do you want?”
He looked at her moodily and still without answering, though in his bright and keen eyes a strange light burned.
She was lovely, he thought, of that there could be no question. But her beauty made to him small appeal, for he was wondering what kind of soul lay behind those perfect features, that smooth and delicate skin, those luminous eyes. Yet his eyes were still hard and it was in his roughest, gruffest tones that he said:
“You needn't be afraid, I won't hurt you.”
“I'll give you everything I have,” she panted, “if only you'll go away.”
“Not so fast as all that,” he answered, coolly, for indeed he had not taken so mad a risk in order to go away again if he could help it. “Who is there in the house besides you?”
“Only mother,” she answered, looking up at him very pleadingly as if in hopes that he must relent when he saw her in distress. “Please, won't you take what you want and go away? Please don't disturb mother, it would nearly kill her.”
“I'm not going to hurt either you or your mother if you'll be sensible,” he said irritably, for, unreasonably enough, the extreme fear she showed and her pleading tones annoyed him. He had a feeling that he would like to shake her, it was so absurd of her to look at him as though she expected him to gobble her up in a mouthful.
She seemed a little reassured.
“Mother will be so dreadfully frightened,” she repeated, “I'll give you everything there is in the house if only you'll go at once.”
“I can take everything I want without your giving it me,” he retorted. “How do I know you're telling the truth when you say there's no one else in the house? How many servants have you?”
“None,” she answered. “There's a woman comes every day, but she doesn't sleep here.”
“Do you live all alone here with your mother?” he asked, watching her keenly.
“There's my stepfather,” she answered. “But he's not here tonight.”
“Oh, is he away?” Dunn asked, his expression almost one of disappointment.
The girl, whose first extreme fear had passed and who was watching him as keenly as he watched her, noticed this manner of disappointment, and could not help wondering what sort of burglar it was who was not pleased to hear that the man of the house was away, and that he had only two women to deal with.
And it appeared to her that he seemed not only disappointed, but rather at a loss what to do next.
As in truth he was, for that the stepfather should be away, and this girl and her mother all alone, was, perhaps, the one possibility that he had never considered.
She noticed, too, that he did not pay any attention to her jewellery, which was lying close to his hand on the toilet-table, and though in point of actual fact this jewellery was not of any great value, it was exceedingly precious in her eyes, and she did not understand a burglar who showed no eagerness to seize on it.
“Did you want to see Mr. Dawson?” she asked, her voice more confident now and even with a questioning note in it.
“Mr. Dawson! Who's he?” Dunn asked, disconcerted by the question, but not wishing to seem so.
“My stepfather, Mr. Deede Dawson,” she answered. “I think you knew that. If you want him, he went to London early today, but I think it's quite likely he may come back tonight.”
“What should I want him for?” growled Dunn, more and more disconcerted, as he saw that he was not playing his part too well.
“I don't know,” she answered. “I suppose you do.”
“You suppose a lot,” he retorted roughly. “Now you listen to me. I don't want to hurt you, but I don't mean to be interfered with. I'm going over the house to see what I can find that's worth taking. Understand?”
“Oh, perfectly,” she said.
She was watching him closely, and she noticed that he still made no attempt to take possession of her jewellery, though it lay at his hand, and that puzzled her very much, indeed, for she supposed the very first thing a burglar did was always to seize such treasures as these of hers. But this man paid them no attention whatever, and did not even notice them.
He was feeling in his pockets now and he took out the revolver and the coil of thin rope he had secured from the burglar.
“Now, do you know what I'm going to do?” he asked, with an air of roughness and brutality that was a little overdone. He put the revolver and the rope down on the bed, the revolver quite close to her.
“I'm going,” he continued, “to tie you up to one of those chairs. I can't risk your playing any tricks or giving an alarm, perhaps, while I'm searching the house. I shall take what's worth having, and then I shall clear off, and if your stepfather's coming home tonight you won't have to wait long till he releases you, and if he don't come I can't help it.”
He turned his back to her as he spoke and took hold of one of the chairs in the room, and then of another and looked at them as though carefully considering which would be the best to use for the carrying out of his threat.
He appeared to find it difficult to decide, for he kept his back turned to her for two or three minutes, during all of which time the revolver lay on the bed quite close to her hand.
He listened intently for he fully expected her to snatch it up, and he wished to be ready to turn before she could actually fire. But, indeed, nothing was further from her thoughts, for she did not know in the least how to use the weapon or even how to fire it off, and the very thought of employing it to kill any one would have terrified her far more even than had done her experiences of this night.
So the pistol lay untouched by her side, while, very pale and trembling a little, she waited what he would do, and on his side he felt as much puzzled by her failure to use the opportunity he had put in her way as she was puzzled by his neglect to seize her jewellery lying ready to his hand.
He was still hesitating, still appearing unable to decide which chair to employ in carrying out his proclaimed purpose of fastening her up when she asked a question that made him swing round upon her very quickly and with a very startled look.
“Are you a real burglar?” she said.