Part 2

“That’s why he told you that story at dinner tonight. That’s why he’s had men working on this tower, and didn’t suggest that you should come over till they’d finished. That’s why he’s locked us in here.”

“But, good God! Hilda, the man must be mad,” he said, hoarsely.

“On the subject of me he is,” she answered.

And still it seemed as if he could hardly realize.

“But someone must come,” he cried, angrily. “He can’t keep us shut in here for days.”

She went across to him.

“Didn’t you hear what he said as he went out? Suffocation. It took twelve hours for those two, and this is half the size. Six hours, Jack—six hours. And the servants are on the other side of the house.”

And now at last he understood, and with the understanding he became himself again. He smiled thoughtfully, and pressed out his cigarette.

“Under those circumstances—no smoking. And under those circumstances also—no scruples either.”

He caught the girl in his arms and kissed her again and again, while she clung to him half sobbing. Then, still with the same thoughtful smile, he pushed her gently into the chair.

“I must explore,” he said, briefly.

First of all—the door. Coolly he examined it, while the girl watched him with eager eyes. He seemed so calm and assured—so completely confident in himself.

A minute or two later he turned and looked at her.

“Nothing doing there,” he said cheerfully. “It fits as tight as a safe door, and there isn’t even a keyhole on this side. It must have some patent form of lock.”

He went round the walls quietly and systematically, tearing down the silk panels as he got to them. Nothing but smooth cement—not a crack, not a fissure.

He stood on the desk to examine the roof. It was of flawless glass, immensely thick. And then he had to get down abruptly. He put his hand to his forehead; it was wet with perspiration.

And now the full gravity of the situation had come home to him. Mad, Hubert Garling might be; there was no sign of madness about this trap. It was diabolically efficient. It was small consolation to know that the murderer might be hanged; all that mattered was that he and the girl he loved were in an air-tight room, and that in a few hours that air would be exhausted.

He took off his shoe and hurled it with all his force at the glass above his head. For ten minutes he went on throwing it; then with a little gesture of despair he threw the shoe on the floor. The glass was too thick; he was only exhausting himself and using up precious oxygen uselessly.

“Supposing we shouted, Jack?” said the girl, quietly.

For a quarter of an hour they shouted “Help!” at intervals of half a minute. No one came; nothing happened.

“It’s getting terribly stuffy, Jack,” she whispered.

“Yes, darling; I’m afraid it is,” he answered, steadily.

He was sitting on the arm of her chair—thinking desperately. Was there no way out? Was there nothing to be done?

“He can’t mean to kill us like this,” she cried, in despair.

He bent and kissed her gently, and she clung to him like a frightened child.

And so they sat for twenty minutes or more, till suddenly the girl clutched his arm.

“Jack,” she whispered, “look up. Oh, my God, look at him!”

She cowered back in the chair, and the man beside her, strong-nerved though he was, shuddered uncontrollably. For staring down on them from above, with his face pressed against the glass, was Hubert Garling. He was crawling over the smooth surface like some loathsome insect—gloating as he watched them.

Moved by an uncontrollable impulse, Jack Denver seized his discarded shoe and hurled it at the madman. So straight was the aim that they could see him start back; then, as the shoe dropped harmlessly back to the floor, Garling’s face once more pressed against the glass. And he was shaking with maniacal laughter.

“Turn off the light, dear,” sobbed the girl. “I can’t bear it.”

There was a click and the tower was in darkness.

“Hold me in your arms, darling,” she cried, pitifully. “I’m not frightened when you’ve got me close.”

Jack Denver took her in his arms almost mechanically: into his mind had come an idea. Above them, outlined against the sky, they could see Garling, and it seemed as if he was beating furiously against the glass with his fists, enraged at being baulked of his triumph.

“Listen, sweetheart,” said Jack, urgently. “There’s a chance. Just a chance. If he thinks we’re dead it’s possible he might come in and open the door. I want you to sprawl forward on the floor—face downwards. Don’t move. Just lie there. Then I’ll switch on the light, stagger round the room once or twice, and then fall myself. Act, my beloved, act as you have never acted before.”

“I understand, dear,” she answered, steadily. “Just kiss me once more.” He strained her to him; then she lay down on the floor half hidden by the desk.

“Ready, Hilda?”

“Yes, Jack; I’m ready.”

Once more the light went on, and Jack Denver stared upwards. Act—oh, God!—let him act sufficiently to deceive the madman. He plucked at his collar, and staggered wildly back against the desk; then he raised imploring hands to Garling. His breath came in short gasps; he went to the door and beat on it. Then again he raised his hands towards the gibbering, gloating face, transformed now with a sort of a diabolical ecstasy into something utterly fiendish.

Then he pitched forward on his face—turned over, and lay staring through half-closed eyes at the man above. Had they bluffed him? Garling’s face was still pressed against the glass; his eyes roamed from one to the other of his victims.

A quarter of an hour—eternity—went by, and he was still there. And then quite suddenly he was gone; the stars shone through the dome clear and unimpeded. For five minutes Jack Denver remained motionless; then, still lying in the same position, he spoke in a whisper.

“He’s gone, darling; but don’t move yet. If he comes in, I’ll go for him, but whatever happens you get on the other side of the door.”

“All right, Jack; but pray Heaven he comes soon. I don’t think I can go on much longer.”

Again eternity passed: the door was still shut. He wasn’t coming; the acting had been in vain. Hubert Garling had seen, as he thought, their agony before they became unconscious; now he was going to make quite certain they were dead before he bothered with them further.

And with a dreadful feeling of physical sickness Jack Denver realized that, though the acting had been in vain, it had been a wonderful dress-rehearsal. Even so, in reality, would Hilda pitch forward and lie still; even so would he tear at his collar and fight for the air which was not there.

The girl had risen, and he rose too, and went to her.

“He’s not coming, Jack,” she said, steadily. “We’ve failed.”

“Yes, dear—I’m afraid we’ve failed.”

“So this is the end.”

He made no answer; only put his arm round her waist and held her tightly.

“I’m not frightened, my man,” she went on, quietly. “I expect I’ll go first, but you’ll find me waiting for you over the other side of the valley.”

He cried aloud in his agony of mind; already he felt as if an iron band was pressing round his head.

“Oh, God!—if I could only get a message through somehow.”

And even as his prayer went up, his eyes rested on the electric light switch. He’d seen it fifty times before; he’d used it in that last despairing throw for safety; and now—he stared at it as if he’d seen it for the first time. Fool that he was—idiot, not to have thought of it before. The tower could be seen from the road, even if he couldn’t be heard from there. And it was the only chance. He turned off the light; then he began to signal.

Three short bursts of light; three long ones; three short again. S.O.S. Then HELP in Morse. Again and again S.O.S. HELP. S.O.S. HELP.

And the iron band round his head grew tighter and tighter. How long he went on he had no idea; time was measured only by the click of the switch—on and off. Dimly he realized that the girl had got to her feet, and with a dreadful look in her face was staggering towards him. He felt her clutch hold of his arm; from a great distance he heard her voice:

“Jack—I can’t breathe; I can’t——”

Her grip relaxed, and she collapsed on the floor at his feet, struggling horribly to breathe.

S.O.S. HELP. S.O.S. HELP.

Slower and slower the message flashed out into the night, until, at last, it ceased altogether. And Jack Denver’s knees gave from under him. With one last effort he turned off the light; then he crumpled up on the floor beside the woman he loved.

And so they found them—two naval officers, one of whom, by the mercy of Allah, was a doctor.

“My God!” he gasped, as they flung open the door and the atmosphere inside hit them. “Get ’em into the fresh air, Flags; and for Heaven’s sake—hurry.”

“Are they dead, Doc?” cried his companion, as they laid the two unconscious bodies by an open window.

“No—but damned near it.” He looked thoughtfully at his brother officer. “Go down and see what’s happened to that madman below, old boy. I’ll look after these two.”

The Flag-Lieutenant went, to return in a few moments with a face that was strangely white.

“Doc.,” he muttered, “he’s dead. Halfway along the passage there.”

The doctor got up quickly and followed the other. And for a while he stood looking at Hubert Garling’s face, that stared with unseeing eyes at the ceiling.

“Heart, Flags, or I’m a Dutchman,” he said. “The struggle to get the key did for him.”

They covered the distorted face with a pocket-handkerchief, and went back to the living. And it was a couple of minutes before either of them spoke again.

“May Heaven be praised, old man,” said the doctor, “that we decided to motor back to Portsmouth and not stop in town. It strikes me there have been some funny things happening here tonight.”

“Where the devil are the servants, anyway?” demanded his pal.

“We’ll get them shortly,” said the other. “And the police, too. Don’t forget, old man, we killed that bloke between us. It was the only thing to do: he was crazy. But it’s a police matter.”

“What is?” Jack Denver’s hoarse croak made them both swing round. He was sitting up, swaying a little, and the doctor hurried to him.

“Feeling better?” he said. “That’s good.”

Denver pushed him away.

“How’s Hilda—how’s Mrs. Garling?”

“Going fine. She hasn’t come round yet—but she will soon. There she is, beside you.”

For a moment Denver looked at her, then he got up unsteadily.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but there’s a man in this house I’m going to kill.”

The two naval officers looked at one another.

“Steady, old chap,” said the Flag-Lieutenant. He followed Denver along the passage. “Unless I’m much mistaken, he’s dead already.”

They paused by the body, and he lifted the pocket-handkerchief from the dead man’s face.

“Is that the man?”

“It is,” said Denver. “How did it happen?”

“It doesn’t take long to tell,” answered the other. “We were motoring back from town, and suddenly we saw your signals. At first we paid no attention, and then—being a Flag-Lieutenant myself—I took them in automatically. S.O.S. Help. We rushed into the house and found that man in the hall downstairs. He was crazy—or so it seemed to us. Told us you were dead by now: and if you weren’t you were going to die. Brandished a key in front of our faces, and roared with laughter. We were on him like a knife, and, I can tell you, he put up a fight. But we got the key, and we got to you in time.”

“She’s coming to,” said the doctor’s voice from just behind them.

For a moment Jack Denver stared at them both.

“I won’t try and thank you now,” he said, quietly. “I’ll do that and explain everything shortly. But when you’ve been into the valley of the shadow with someone, and come out first, it’s good to welcome your fellow-voyager.”

He turned and went back to Hilda Garling. And when, a few seconds later, she opened her eyes, it was into his that they stared. His arms were round her, and he was smiling.

“Jack,” she whispered, exultingly, “it wasn’t so terrible, was it? And we’re together after all.”

For a moment he didn’t understand: then it came to him.

“Dear heart,” he said, tenderly. “We’re not dead: we’re alive.”

End of Project Gutenberg's The Valley of the Shadow, by Herman Cyril McNeile