The Voice from the Void: The Great Wireless Mystery

“I have, and I mean to marry her. Nothing can prevent that.”

“I could,” snapped the woman.

“Yes. But you won’t, my dear Freda. If you did – well, you’d forgo all the money that will very soon be yours.”

“Arthur stands in with us.”

“Well, I suppose we shall have to give him a little bit. But he’ll have to be satisfied with a few hundreds.”

“He expects a quarter share.”

“He’ll have to go on expecting,” laughed her companion. ”‘Guinness’ always expects more than he’s entitled to. It is a complaint of his.”

“And if you married this girl, do you think you would be happy, Gordon?”

“Happy? I’m not seeking happiness, my dear girl. I’m after money.”

“But can’t it be managed without your marriage to Elma?”

“No, it can’t,” he declared. “That’s one of my conditions to old Sandys. Naturally the girl is thinking of her lover. But she’ll soon see that he’s deceived her, and then she’ll learn to forget him.”

“I doubt it. I know the temperament of young girls of Elma’s stamp.”

“You’re jealous. I repeat!” he said with sarcasm. “Fancy! Your being jealous of Elma! Am I so good-looking and such an Adonis – eh?”

“You’re anything but that,” she replied sharply. “But you see, Gordon, you’ve taught me never to trust a soul, not even yourself. And I don’t. Once you marry that girl you will become a rich man and try to shake me off. But,” – and a fierce expression showed in the woman’s eyes – “but I’ll watch that you don’t. I can say a lot, remember.”

“And I can also,” the man laughed, with a careless air, “but I won’t, and neither will you, my dear girl. Silence is best for both of us.”

“You can carry out the business without marrying Elma,” Freda urged. “You have taken every precaution against accident, and the ruin of Sandys has made everything possible. What would Mr Sandys say if he knew that the amiable Mr Rex Rutherford was one of the men to whom Sir Charles Hornton lost that big sum at cards three nights before he killed himself?”

Gray drew a long breath.

“Well,” he said with a bitter smile, “I don’t suppose he’d feel very friendly towards me. But the driving of Sir Charles into a corner was, I foresaw, one of the chief points in our game. Sandys is ruined, and I’m the good Samaritan who comes forward at the opportune moment and brings salvation.”

“Clever,” declared the woman, “devilish clever! But you always are, Gordon. You are wonderful.”

“In combination with yourself, my dear Freda. I’m no good without you,” he declared. “So don’t exhibit these foolish fits of jealousy. I’ve made up my mind to marry Sandys’ daughter, for it will improve my prestige. When I’ve had enough of her, I shall simply leave her and we will rejoin forces again,” he added callously. And then together they went out to dine at the Ritz.

That same evening Elma sat in her room, with the hazy London sunset fading over the Park, confused and wondering.

Surely Roddy would not tell her a lie! She took out his scribbled note and re-read it, as she had done a dozen times before. It was a plain and straightforward assertion, and yet the man Rutherford had produced the concession granted to him, properly authenticated and officially sealed.

Where was Roddy? Was it really possible, as Rutherford had suggested, that he was in hiding, not daring to come forward now that his lie was proved? She could not bring herself to believe it. And yet why had he so suddenly gone to Farncombe for one night and then taken train to Guildford and disappeared?

On the previous day she had been down to Guildford by train from Waterloo, and had made inquiries of the porters and in the booking-office and elsewhere regarding Roddy, whom one or two of the railway servants – knew, but without avail. Roddy had been seen waiting out in the station yard by a clerk in the parcel office. That was all the information she could gather. Therefore, after a cup of coffee at the tea-shop in the old-fashioned High Street, she had returned to London.

That evening as she sat pondering, pale and nervous, her maid came into her room and she roused herself wearily. Then she put on a plain little black dinner-frock and went downstairs to the dining-room, where her father, pale-faced and rather morose, awaited her.

Hughes, surprised at his master’s sudden gravity, served the meal with his usual stateliness, begotten of long service with the Earl.

With the footman and Hughes present father and daughter could exchange no confidences. So they hurried over their meal, and found relief when they were back in the library and alone.

“I’m utterly puzzled, dad,” declared the girl; “I can get no news of Roddy. I’m certain that he would never write that letter and deceive me about the concession. It is his – I’m positive.”

“But, my dear child, how can it be? I have read the translation of Rutherford’s concession. All is in order. It revokes any other permit that has ever been given. It is a firm and unassailable contract.”

“I don’t care what it is,” declared the girl. “Roddy would never deceive me. I know his father’s death has greatly upset him, but he is still in possession of all his faculties.”

“But his mental condition was bad, you will remember,” remarked her father.

“It was. But he is quite well again. I know he would never mislead me, dad!” And she fondled Tweedles, who, barking for recognition, had placed his front paws upon her knees.

“Of course,” said Mr Sandys, humouring her, “you love Roddy and, of course, believe in him. It is after all but natural, my child.”

“Yes, dad. You know that I love him. He is so honest, so upright, so true, that I feel confident, though the evidence seems against him, that he has not told a lie. He is the victim of circumstances,” the slim girl said, as she stood before the fire with the little dog in her arms.

“But unfortunately, dear, he does not come forward,” her father said. “Is it not his place to be here after writing you that letter concerning the concession? If he had been granted it, surely he would have come direct to me with it! Homfray is no fool. He knows that I could develop the scheme in the City within a few hours. Therefore why is he not here?”

“He is prevented.”

“How do we know that? He may be prevented – or he may fear to come.”

“You are not generous towards him, dad,” the girl protested.

“I’m generous, my dear – most generous,” replied the ruined man. “I like Roddy Homfray. His poor father’s sudden death was, I fear, a great blow to him, and especially so as he has scarcely entirely recovered from that very strange adventure of his which narrowly cost him his life. But in the present circumstances we must face hard facts. He has written to you making an assertion which he has not substantiated, and which is disproved by the official document which Rex Rutherford has placed in my hands.”

The girl, still confident in her lover’s bona fides, shook her head.

“There will be ample explanation one day, dad. I’m certain of it,” she declared. “I am indeed confident that Roddy has not written to me a deliberate lie.”

Next day passed, but young Homfray made no sign. Again Elma telephoned to Farncombe, and yet again came the reply that her lover had not returned. His silence puzzled her greatly. Could it be really true that his concession only existed in his own imagination? She loved him too well to think ill of him. Now that she was as poor as he was there could be no barrier to their marriage. Her magnificent home would be swept away, the Towers would be sold again, and her father made bankrupt.

She was again standing alone at the window of her room looking across the Park, where the trees were clearly showing the autumn tints.

Her face was pale and haggard, her clenched hands trembling.

“No, no!” she whispered hoarsely. “I alone can save dad from ruin and bankruptcy. I alone! And I must do it!”

That evening, just after Hughes had brought in the tea, her father being in the City, the old man reappeared saying that Mr Rutherford had called.

She held her breath, then, with an effort, she gave permission for him to be shown in.

The stout, beady-eyed man, in perfect-fitting clothes and a dangling monocle, crossed the carpet, smiling, with hand outstretched. The girl asked him to be seated, and poured him out a cup of tea. Her thoughts were of Roddy, but she strove to crush them down. Her brain was awhirl, for she knew that only by her own sacrifice could her beloved father be saved.

Presently, when they had chatted about other things, Rutherford returned to the point and bluntly asked whether she had reconsidered her decision.

“Yes, Mr Rutherford, I have,” she replied very slowly in a deep, tense voice. “You are prepared to assist my father under a certain condition. That I accept.”

“Then you will marry me!” he cried, with triumph in his eyes, as he jumped up and seized her hand. Then she felt his hot breath upon her cheek and shrank from his embrace.

When he left she went to her room and, locking the door, gave way to another paroxysm of grief.

At nine o’clock that night Rutherford called again and told Mr Sandys of Elma’s acceptance.

The old man stood staggered.

“Elma has done this for your sake, Mr Sandys,” Rutherford said. “And, after all, it is a marriage of convenience, as so many are. Both our positions will be improved by it, yours and mine, for this concession will mean big money to both of us.”

Mr Sandys could not reply. His thoughts held him speechless. Elma had sacrificed herself to save him from ruin!

But where was Roddy Homfray? That was a problem which neither father nor daughter could solve.

Two days later Elma and her father went down to Farncombe Towers, Mr Sandys having already taken preliminary steps for the purpose of floating the Emerald Mines of Morocco. There were rumours in the City concerning it, and a great deal of interest was being taken in the scheme in very influential quarters.

Rex Rutherford had not before been to Farncombe, therefore he was now invited. Now that old Norton Homfray was dead he accepted, and spent most of the time rambling with Elma either in the gardens, the park, or the surrounding woods, though she did all in her power to avoid his loathsome caresses.

Elma, unknown to Rutherford, managed to call at the Rectory. On inquiring of Mrs Bentley regarding Roddy, the old woman explained that he had returned from abroad, slept one night there, and had gone out next day and had not come back. She knew that he had gone to Guildford, but that was all.

“And there’s been a young lady here wanting to see him, miss.”

“A young lady! Who?”

“She’s a Miss Manners.”

“Miss Manners!” Elma echoed. “Describe her.”

The woman did so, and Elma stood open-mouthed.

“She was here again three days ago,” Mrs Bentley added. “And she seems so eager to see Mr Roddy.”

“I must see Miss Manners,” Elma shouted to the deaf old woman. “You have no idea where she lives, I suppose?”

“No. I think she comes from London.”

“Well, next time she comes let me know at once. Or better, bring her up to the Towers to see me. It is most important that I should see her.”

Mrs Bentley promised, and Elma, returning to the Towers, told her father of Edna’s reappearance. Old Mr Sandys was equally surprised and equally eager to meet her. Where, they wondered, had she been all those months. He telephoned at once to the boarding-house in Powis Square, Bayswater, at which she had lived before her sudden disappearance, but could obtain no news of her whereabouts.

Chapter Twenty Six

The Unknown Hand

What occurred at Guildford station on the morning when Roddy went to meet his friend Barclay by appointment was distinctly curious.

Having spent nearly an hour on the Hog’s Back, experimenting with his new wireless receiving-set, he packed it up, descended the hill to the station, and was on the platform when the train from Waterloo came in.

Barclay, however, was not among the alighting passengers.

There being another train a quarter of an hour later, he decided to await it, and strolled out into the station yard. He had just lit a cigarette and was gazing around when he noticed a big limousine car approach and draw up opposite the booking-office. The chauffeur, descending, approached him, touched his cap, and said:

“Excuse me, sir. Are you Mr Homfray?”

“That’s my name,” Roddy replied.

“Oh, Mr Barclay has sent me for you, sir. He’s at the Lion Hotel here. He’s got a business engagement, and is sorry he couldn’t come along.”

“Right,” answered the young man, crossing to the car, the windows of which were closed. The man opened the door politely and he entered, but as soon as he sat down he heard a strange hissing noise and felt a want of air. He gasped, his eyes burned, and the next second the darkness of unconsciousness fell upon him and he knew no more. The car had, in the seat, a bellows which, as he sat upon it, blew out a poisonous gas. Of what happened afterwards he had no knowledge.

When slowly and painfully he regained his senses and became aware of his surroundings, he found himself in a small bare room with a stone floor. He was lying upon some old sacking, while near by, close to the door, stood a plate that had evidently contained food and a broken brown jug with some water, while in close vicinity was his raincoat, which had apparently been flung into a corner.

High up in the thick wall was a small window, not more than six inches square. There was no glass in it, so it gave both light and ventilation.

He was too weak to move, and his hand, coming into contact with his chin, he was surprised to find that, though usually shaven, he had a growth of beard. Could he have lain there for some days in a state of semi-consciousness?

He shouted, but his voice was very weak. There was no response, though he strained his ears to listen.

At once he realised that he had again fallen into a trap cunningly prepared for him. That message on the radio-telephone he should not have heeded. He had been a fool! Yet he had believed it to be genuine, because it had been relayed to him by a radio experimenter whom he had known for many months. Probably Barclay was in ignorance of the whole affair, and was wondering what had become of him.

And Elma! What would she think? How was she faring?

His hollow, deep-set eyes wandered slowly around the bare stone chamber with its dusty beams hung with cobwebs, and its lime-washed walls. An odour of damp and mildew greeted his nostrils, while from outside came the rustle of autumn leaves.

He was somewhere out in the country. But where?

The empty plate and jug of water told their own tale. He was held there in bondage by his enemies! He could only surmise that during his period of unconsciousness his janitors – whoever they might be – had fed him, giving him just sufficient to keep body and soul together. Had his captors condemned him to death by starvation? It seemed that they had. He stared at the empty plate in horror.

From the light in the narrow high-up window he judged the hour to be about noon. The autumn sky was blue and cloudless, and he could hear a sparrow twittering. What, he wondered, had happened? All he could recall was his entering into the motor-car, the strange hissing noise and his sudden asphyxiation. He had evidently walked straight into a trap!

Again and again he shouted, but only feebly, for he was very weak, and his brain seemed on fire. His thoughts were all confused. Yet ever and anon, through the mists, came flashes of remembrance of the past, with visions of Elma’s beautiful face looking inquiringly into his. His strange adventure in Welling Wood; his love for Elma, his meeting with Mr Sandys, his father’s death, and his search in Normandy for the mysterious Miss Manners came before him. But his mental capacity was far from normal. When he reflected he became more than ever puzzled.

One thing was plain. He was held by the enemy.

In his nervous half-conscious state he fell asleep. How long he slept he had no idea. When he awoke, however, he felt refreshed. Dawn was spreading. He had been asleep for many hours.

On the plate lay some tinned meat and some bread! The water jug had been refilled! Whoever was his janitor was determined to keep him alive.

With an effort he raised himself, but so weak was he that only by clutching at the wall did he succeed in reaching the jug, from which he drank deeply.

Then he crawled around his stone prison with difficulty. He was hungry and ate some of the meat and bread.

Afterwards he sat upon the sacks, weak, weary and with wandering brain, trying to locate his exact position.

Suddenly, from outside, he heard voices – rough voices in the silence.

“Yes. Rotten! I call it! But I’m in for higher wages, and that’s a fact! Tom’s wages were rose this week,” were the words that broke in upon his ear.

He raised himself and crawled to the little window, but, despite his struggles, could not reach it. It was far too high. He longed to look out upon the world and ascertain where he was. But that was impossible, and in his weak state he sank back again into unconsciousness.

How long he remained he knew not.

When he awoke, however, he found himself still beneath the little window. The plate and jug were there, just as he had left them.

The rough voices of workers outside had passed in mystery. He ate the remaining portions of the food which was grudgingly given him by an unknown hand, drank some water, and then crossed to his raincoat. In its pocket his cigar-box wireless receiving-set still remained.

Then he searched his other pockets, and to his surprise found that his captors had not taken anything. His wallet, with his visiting cards, and some money and other things were still there.

“Well,” he exclaimed aloud, “this is all astounding. What fresh mystery is there here? Who is it who feeds me when I am unconscious? And how silent it all is! Only the whispers of the leaves, and the twittering of birds. I am alone!”

Then after reflection he again spoke aloud to himself.

“What can Elma think of my silence? I wrote to her telling her of my good fortune, and I have not seen her since. And again – the girl Manners! She reappeared at the Rectory after I had searched in France for her, and yet we have not met! Mr Sandys told me that it was most important to him that her fate should be ascertained. I have discovered that she is actually alive, and yet I cannot confirm it. I cannot confirm anything – even my letter to Elma about the concession. God!” he shouted in agony of mind. “What can I do? How shall I act?”

Again he yelled for help, as he had done times without number.

But all was silent. He was in a tomb.

In a hazy way he recollected stories of the oubliettes of the Bastille and of the dreaded dungeons of the Château of Loches. Here he was confined in a modern dungeon where, if the hand of his unseen janitor were withdrawn, he would die of hunger and thirst!

Yes. His father’s enemies had indeed triumphed!

All his fears were concentrated upon Elma. What was happening to the girl he loved so dearly? If he had fallen into the hands of his enemies, it was only to be supposed that she too – even though she were the daughter of the great financier – had shared the same fate.

He recollected how his dead father had warned him against Freda Crisp and Gordon Gray. And yet he felt assured, when he examined his own conscience, that he had never to his knowledge harmed a living soul. He had been enthusiastic in his profession, travelling hither and thither in little known regions of the world prospecting for ore. It was his calling to do so. And now, on his return to England, he had suddenly fallen into one trap after another.

Why?

That was a problem which he tried to solve until, worried and angry, he once more sank upon the heap of old sacking and again fell asleep, quite exhausted in body and in mind.

Two days followed – days of long vigil, eager listening and a strangely dead silence. All he heard was the rustling of leaves and the glad song of the birds. By day he could hear the sparrow, the thrush and the robin, and at night the weird hooting of an owl and the scuttling of rats.

His mind was slowly regaining its normal balance. He could think without that bursting sensation in his skull, yet the great mystery which overwhelmed him was the motive why he had been entrapped into captivity as some strange and dangerous animal.

“No doubt I am dangerous,” he said aloud to himself on the second morning. “Dangerous to those into whose hands I have now fallen – that vampire woman who is actually the friend of Elma! Gad! I can’t fathom it. The whole affair is quite beyond my comprehension. Why did my own father warn me of the pair? If he knew them as crooks, why did he not himself openly expose them them – except – except – that – ”

And he paused, gazing fixedly up at the little window.

“Except – that – that perhaps the dear old dad dare not tell the truth! He may have had some secret!”

He walked slowly and with difficulty around that small stone chamber. His father had died without revealing to him the truth about Gray and the woman Crisp. Why?

“I wonder if Elma will believe me?” he said aloud, in a strange whisper which echoed weirdly around those lime-washed walls. “Will she believe that letter I wrote her regarding the Wad Sus concession? I should have told her so with my own lips, only – only at Park Lane that night I was not wanted. Elma was not at home. Oh! when shall I learn the truth of all this – when shall I be able to explain it all to Elma? When shall I see Barclay?”

He was silent for some minutes. Then another mystery was the identity of the person who, being his janitor, supplied him with food. Two further days went by. When he slept, exhausted, his food was renewed – by whose hands?

As he grew stronger in those days since the recovery of his senses he had striven to reach the window and look out. But he had never been able to do so. The little window was fully eight feet above the floor and he had nothing to mount upon to grip its ledge. Time after time he ran at it and sprang in the air, but in his weakened condition he always fell too short.

So he gave it up as hopeless. Escape, he realised, was quite impossible. Yet where he was held captive he knew not. His enemies had taken all precautions. They were determined to hold him prisoner, apparently to gain time.

Why?

One day he had slept heavily all the morning, probably snoring, as he knew he did, when he was awakened by a movement near him. He opened his eyes stealthily but made no sign.

Before him, moving across the room, he saw the dim figure of a man in respectable black who carried in his hand a plate containing food.

Suddenly the beam of light from the high window lit up his janitor’s face, and in an instant he recognised it as the countenance of a man he had seen in his dreams while he had been held prisoner at Willowden – it was, in fact, the old criminal who posed as Gray’s butler – the man Claribut.

For a few seconds Roddy watched, and then with a sudden effort he sprang up and threw himself upon the fellow at a second when his back was turned.

“What the devil do you mean by keeping me here!” he demanded, as he threw his arms around the man’s neck and attempted to throw him to the ground.

Claribut, taken entirely off his guard, tried to throw off his assailant, uttering a fierce imprecation the while, but the pair were Locked in a deadly embrace. Roddy, though young and athletic, was still too weak to overcome the old man’s defence.

Around the narrow stone walls they reeled. The door stood open, and Roddy, with a frantic effort, tried to force Claribut towards it, but the old criminal, who had been very athletic in his time, always prevented him.

Roddy, weakened and ill, fought for his life, and gradually succeeded in getting his opponent towards the door. He fell and rolled in the dust, but the young fellow would not release his hold. The open door was before him and he was determined to escape.

Twice he was near it and endeavoured to throw off his captor, but old Claribut always kept with him and held him by the throat until he was nearly choked.

Roddy again struggled to his feet, and with both hands at Claribut’s throat at last had the advantage. He saw the man’s face purple and his eyes starting. He was close to the door, and if he could only cast the choking man from him he could escape.