“Jerome! I’m here! I want to see you, old fellow. Open the door.”
Still there was no answer.
Thomasson, standing at the foot of the wide, old-fashioned stairs, heard his master’s visitor, and asked—
“Is the door locked, sir?”
“Yes,” Jack shouted back.
“That’s very strange?” remarked the man. “I’ve let nobody in since Mr. Trustram, of the Admiralty, went away—about a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Has he been here?” Jack asked. “I met him here the other day. He struck me as being a rather surly man, and I didn’t like him at all,” declared Sainsbury, with his usual frankness.
“Neither do I, sir, strictly between ourselves,” replied Thomasson quite frankly. “He’s been here quite a lot lately. His wife consulted the master about three months ago, and that’s how they first met, I believe. But can’t you get in?”
“No. Curious, isn’t it?”
“Very. The doctor never locks his door in the usual way,” Thomasson said, ascending the stairs with Sainsbury, and himself trying the handle.
He knocked loudly, asking—
“Are you in there, sir?” But still no response was given.
“I can’t make this out, Mr. Sainsbury,” exclaimed the man, turning to him with anxiety on his pale face. “The key’s in the lock—on the inside too! He must be inside, and he’s locked himself in. Why, I wonder?”
Jack Sainsbury bent and put his eye to the keyhole. The room within was lit, for he could see the well-filled bookcase straight before him, and an empty chair was plainly visible.
Instantly he listened, for he thought in the silence—at that moment there being an absence of traffic out in the street—that he heard a slight sound, as though of a low, metallic click.
Again he listened, holding his breath. He was not mistaken. A slight but quite distinct sharp click could be heard, as though a piece of metal had struck the window-pane. Once—twice—it was repeated, afterwards a long-drawn sigh.
Then he heard no more.
“Open the door, Jerrold!” he cried impatiently. “Don’t play the fool. What’s the matter, old chap?”
“Funny—very funny—isn’t it!” Thomasson exclaimed, his brows knit in mystification.
“Most curious,” declared Sainsbury, now thoroughly anxious. “How long was Mr. Trustram here?”
“He dined out with the doctor—at Prince’s, I think—and they came back together about half-past nine. While Mr. Trustram was here he was on the telephone twice or three times. Once he was rung up by Mr. Lewin Rodwell.”
“Mr. Lewin Rodwell!” echoed Sainsbury. “Did you happen to hear anything of their conversation?”
“Well, not much, sir,” was the servant’s discreet reply. “I answered the ’phone at first, and it was Mr. Rodwell speaking. He told me who he was, and then asked if Mr. Trustram was with the doctor. I said he was, and at once went and called him.”
“Did Mr. Trustram appear to be on friendly terms with Mr. Rodwell?” asked the young man eagerly.
“Oh! quite. I heard Mr. Trustram laughing over the ’phone, and saying ‘All right—yes, I quite understand. It’s awfully good of you to make the suggestion. I think it excellent. I’ll propose it to-morrow—yes, at the club to-morrow at four.’ ”
Suggestion? What suggestion had Lewin Rodwell made to that official of the Transport Department—Lewin Rodwell, of all men!
Jack Sainsbury stood before that locked door, for the moment unable to think. He was utterly dumbfounded.
Those 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