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“Yes — why?” said Nigel, blinking at him.
“There is a telephone message, sir.”
A piece of paper on a salver appeared under Nigel’s nose. He took it and read. The pink mist dissolved, and Nigel sat staring at a dozen words. “Mr. Alleyn hopes Mr. Bathgate will join Mr. Sumiloff early as possible.”
“Er — thank you, no answer,” said Nigel confusedly.
Chapter XIV
Meeting Adjourned
Sumiloff’s arms were begi
Vassily came into the room. His face was masked with a curious thick pallor. His look at Sumiloff suggested some sort of repressed compassion. He spoke swiftly in Russian and then for Yansen’s benefit in English.
“The man outside says Mr. Bathgate is coming now,” he said.
“We shall receive him,” said Yansen. He turned to the others. “Are you ready there?” he said. “It is quite simple. Vassily had better not open the door; if he were to do so it would make an awkwardness.” The others nodded and rose to their feet.
Nigel was in fact turning into the cul-de-sac at that moment. He could not imagine what had necessitated this unexpected move of Alleyn’s. Was he to walk into the meeting as if by accident? Was he merely to ask Vassily if a Mr. Sumiloff was there, or should he give Vassily the password and pretend, unconvincingly, that he was a member of this musical comedy society?
He looked fixedly at the shop opposite Alleyn’s house. Was the eye of the Yard observing him from behind those blind shutters? Would he find Alleyn already in possession?
He rang the bell and waited. The man who opened the door obviously was not Vassily. He was younger and taller, but the glare of light behind him prevented Nigel from seeing his face.
“Krasinski,” said Nigel self-consciously.
“That’s all right, Mr. Bathgate,” replied the man cheerfully. “Come right in.”
“Well, really!” said Nigel and he walked in. The man shut the door carefully and turned to the light
“You!” exclaimed Nigel.
“Yes, Mr. Bathgate. I was glad to find you at the Hungaria. You told me just what I wanted to know. Will you come along in, sir?”
Nigel followed him to the dining-room. At the door the man stood aside and Nigel, still very bewildered, went in. Sumiloff was sitting in the wooden chair with his wrists and ankles tied up. Three other men stood at the far end of the table and Vassily was behind them.
The man who had been at the Hungaria locked the door and joined the others.
“Sumiloff,” said Nigel, “what does all this mean?”
“You see for yourself,” said Sumiloff.
“Mr. Sumiloff has been a bit indiscreet,” remarked the tall man, “and so, if you’ll excuse me, have you, sir.”
“But,” stammered Nigel, “is Sumiloff one of the society, then?”
“On the contrary. I am. Not Inspector-Detective Boys, Mr. Bathgate, but Erik Yansen. Allow me to present my comrades. We are all armed and you are covered, Mr. Bathgate.”
While they were binding him to the other armchair, Nigel’s predominant thought was what a fool Angela would think him. And what a triple damnable fool Alleyn would think him, he reflected, as a leather strap bit into his ankle. He looked at Sumiloff.
“How has it happened?” he asked.
“Yansen saw us together in Regent Street. It is my fault. It was criminally careless; we should never have gone so far together. He recognized me and, being already suspicious, followed you to the Hungaria.”
“Quite correct,” said Yansen. “And since our Comrade Vassily had told us how puzzled Mr. Alleyn is with the doctor’s song, I ventured to mention it. Your face encouraged me to proceed, Mr. Bathgate.”
“Inspector-Detective Alleyn,” said Nigel, “has told me my face is eloquent.”
“So when I arrived there, we arranged to send you a little message.”
“It’s all beautifully clear now, thank you,” said Nigel.
“Before the arrival of Comrade Yansen, however,” said Sumiloff suddenly, “I was able to collect an appreciable amount of information. Tokareff did not murder your cousin, Mr. Bathgate.”
Vassily exclaimed abruptly in Russian and was answered peremptorily by one of his compatriots.
“It would have been big glory for him if he had killed zis man,” added the Russian heavily.
“Nonsense,” said Sumiloff loudly.
The Russian who had spoken walked across the room and hit Sumiloff across the mouth.
“Svinya!” said Sumiloff disinterestedly. “He is upset because I do not know where Alleyn is. Look at the room.”
It had begun to dawn on Nigel that the house was in a chaotic state of disruption. The curtains had been dragged aside, the furniture pulled out from the walls, a desk had been opened and the great open fireplace was littered with papers. He remembered noticing the same sort of disorder in the hall.
“They have been down into the cellars and up into the attic too,” said Sumiloff. “Now they do not know what to do with us.”
“Listen to me,” said Yansen forcibly. “One of you or both of you can tell us what Alleyn is doing. Give us some line on where he is. It is ridiculous to refuse, to oblige us to use force.”
He stood over Nigel.
“Where is Alleyn?” he said.
“I have no idea,” said Nigel. “It is the truth — I do not know.”
“When and where did you arrange to meet him after — this?”
“I made no arrangements.”
“Lying pig,” whispered Yansen vehemently. He slapped Nigel’s face, knocking the back of his head against the chair. The Russians began talking together.
“What are you saying?” demanded Yansen.
“Shall I interpret?” offered Sumiloff sweetly.
“Niet! No!” said the tallest of the three. “I can myself make it all right in English. I say give them some torments to talk. There is no time for waiting. It is not safe. Then afterwards what to do with them? I think better to kill them bose, but then for dispose the bodies? It is difficult. But first make them spik.”
The clock in the little hall cleared its throat and struck twelve. Angela would ring up now, the police were just across the street. There was no need to get the wind up. Vassily suddenly burst out crying. The embarrassing tears of an old man. The Russians apparently cursed him and the one who could speak English came over to Sumiloff, fingering the lapel of his coat. They spoke together in Russian.
“Bathgate,” said Sumiloff quietly, “they are going to run a pin up my nails. And yours too. It is rather an infantile form of torture and not at all up to the traditions of the brotherhood. But it hurts.”
He ended with a quick intake of his breath. Nigel heard himself cursing. Yansen and one of the Russians bent over him. Nigel remembered a remark of Arthur Wilde’s: “It should be possible so to divorce the mind from the body that one could look on at one’s own physical pain with the same analytical detachment one directs towards the agony of another person.”
A sickening and disgusting pain violated his fingers. His whole body jerked and the straps cut his flesh. “I shall not be able to bear this,” he thought. Vassily was sobbing loudly. The four men stood over Sumiloff and Nigel. Nigel shut his eyes.
“Now,” said Yansen, “you will tell us — where is Alleyn?”
“Immediately behind you,” said Alleyn. A sort of blare of amazement lit up inside Nigel’s brain. Close to his ear someone was blowing an ear-splitting whistle. The noise corresponded precisely with the pain in his finger-tip. He opened his eyes. A nigger minstrel with a revolver squatted, straddle-legged, over the dead fire.