Part 1 (1/2)
The Great Secret.
by E. Phillips Oppenheim.
CHAPTER I
ROOM NO. 317
I laid my papers down upon the broad mahogany counter, and exchanged greetings with the tall frock-coated reception clerk who came smiling towards me.
”I should like a single room on the third floor east, about the middle corridor,” I said. ”Can you manage that for me? 317 I had last time.”
He shook his head at once. ”I am very sorry, Mr. Courage,” he said, ”but all the rooms in that corridor are engaged. We will give you one on the second floor at the same price.”
I was about to close with his offer, when, with a word of excuse, he hurried away to intercept some one who was pa.s.sing through the hall. A junior clerk took his place, and consulted the plan for a moment doubtfully.
”There are several rooms exactly in the locality you asked for,” he remarked, ”which are simply being held over. If you would prefer 317, you can have it, and I will give 217 to our other client.”
”Thank you,” I answered, ”I should prefer 317 if you can manage it.”
He scribbled the number upon a ticket and handed it to the porter, who stood behind with my dressing-case. A page caught up the key, and I followed them to the lift. In the light of things which happened afterwards, I have sometimes wondered what became of the unfortunate junior clerk who gave me room number 317.
It was six o'clock when I arrived at the Hotel Universal. I washed, changed my clothes, and was shaved in the barber's shop. Afterwards, I spent, I think, the ordinary countryman's evening about town--having some regard always to the purpose of my visit. I dined at my club, went on to the Empire with a couple of friends, supped at the Savoy, and, after a brief return visit to the club, a single game of billiards and a final whisky and soda, returned to my hotel contented and sleepy, and quite prepared to tumble into bed. By some chance--the history of nations, as my own did, will sometimes turn upon such slight events--I left my door ajar whilst I sat upon the edge of the bed finis.h.i.+ng a cigarette and treeing my boots, preparatory to depositing them outside. Suddenly my attention was arrested by a somewhat curious sound. I distinctly heard the swift, stealthy footsteps of a man running at full speed along the corridor. I leaned forward to listen. Then, without a moment's warning, they paused outside my door. It was hastily pushed open and as hastily closed. A man, half clothed and panting, was standing facing me--a strange, pitiable object. The boots slipped from my fingers. I stared at him in blank bewilderment.
”What the devil--” I began.
He made an anguished appeal to me for silence. Then I heard other footsteps in the corridor pausing outside my closed door. There was a moment's silence, then a soft m.u.f.fled knocking. I moved towards it, only to be met by the intruder's frenzied whisper--
”For G.o.d's sake keep quiet!”
The man's hot breath scorched my cheek, his hands gripped my arm with nervous force, his hysterical whisper was barely audible, although his lips were within a few inches of my ear.
”Keep quiet,” he muttered, ”and don't open the door!”
”Why not?” I asked.
”They will kill me,” he answered simply.
I resumed my seat on the side of the bed. My sensations were a little confused. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, I should probably have been angry. It was impossible, however, to persevere in such a sentiment towards the abject creature who cowered by my side.
Yet, after all, was he abject? I looked away from the door, and, for the second time, studied carefully the features of the man who had sought my protection in so extraordinary a manner. He was clean shaven, his features were good; his face, under ordinary circ.u.mstances, might have been described as almost prepossessing. Just now it was whitened and distorted by fear to such an extent that it gave to his expression a perfectly repulsive cast. It was as though he looked beyond death and saw things, however dimly, more terrible than human understanding can fitly grapple with. There were subtleties of horror in his gla.s.sy eyes, in his drawn and haggard features.
Nothing, perhaps, could more completely ill.u.s.trate the effect his words and appearance had upon me than the fact that I accepted his extraordinary statement without any instinct of disbelief! Here was I, an Englishman of sound nerves, of average courage, and certainly untroubled with any superabundance of imagination, domiciled in a perfectly well-known, if somewhat cosmopolitan, London hotel, and yet willing to believe, on the statement of a person whom I had never seen before in my life, that, within a few yards of me, were unseen men bent upon murder.
From outside I heard a warning c.h.i.n.k of metal, and, acting upon impulse, I stepped forward and slipped the bolt of my door. Immediately afterwards a key was softly inserted in the lock and turned. The door strained against the bolt from some invisible pressure. Then there came the sound of retreating footsteps. We heard the door of the next room opened and closed. A moment later the handle of the communicating door was tried. I had, however, bolted it before I commenced to undress.
”What the mischief are you about?” I cried angrily. ”Can't you leave my room alone?”
No answer; but the panels of the communicating door were bent inwards until it seemed as though they must burst. I crossed the room to where my portmanteau stood upon a luggage-rack, and took from it a small revolver.
When I stood up with it in my hand, the effect upon my visitor was almost magical. He caught at my wrist and wrested it from my fingers. He grasped it almost lovingly.