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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Nearly choked by the handkerchief which was roughly forced
down her throat, Christina was dragged back into the shadow.
THE blackout over London was nearly absolute. When Christina drew aside the window curtains of the sitting room, at first she could distinguish nothing. It was as though a wall had been built up outside the glass. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw the dimmed lights of traffic and glow-worm gleams speckling the pavement, cast by the electric torches of invisible pedestrians.
In spite of dangers and difficulties, the nation was carrying on as usual. Young people made dates—and kept them. Old people went out after dark; they were not to be stampeded out of their habits.
Christina was acutely affected by the Blackout, because it was a definite physical handicap. She had dark blue eyes and had to pay for their beauty with the defective vision which often accompanies that color. But although it was dark when she returned from the munitions factory where she worked, she made the journey with other employees, while the route had grown familiar. Once she was back in the flat, she settled down for the evening and refused all invitations.
That evening, she peered out at the dark, withdrawn world beyond the window as though it were a hostile judge concealing unknown peril. Her nerves were somewhat frayed, owing to lack of sleep.
She went to bed late because she was afraid of a recurrent nightmare. It was always the same dream. She found herself walking down an unknown road, in absolute darkness—with the knowledge that she had a long distance to go. Suddenly—she felt herself gripped by invisible hands—then the horror always shook her awake.
She was furious over this leakage of energy at a time when she needed all her reserves of strength. Recently she had the honor of a personal interview with a Mr. T.P. Fry—a younger member of the firm which owned the factory. It look place in his private room, when the august man explained the facts.
"Every country in war time," he said, "is subject to the abuse of sabotage. The scum of a nation will always seize its chance to profit. To protect our interests in the factory, we have organized some of our most trusted workers as counter-espionage agents."
Christina thrilled as she listened, although his next sentence conveyed a warning.
"The work requires courage and discretion. You remain anonymous and—in your own interests—you must not try to make contacts. You should take extra precautions against accidents inside the factory and not go out in the blackout, if you can avoid it. You may be followed by malcontents... No extra pay—but I hope there will be a bonus at the end of the war."
AFTER the minimum of reflection, Christina volunteered
for the special service. Instead of dull routine, she felt
elevated to something in the John Buchan tradition. At first,
although she was especially zealous in the prevention of
carelessness; she made no exposures. But—as though
her vigilance had been marked as inconvenient to the cause
of sabotage, a few days previously, she had been nearly the
victim of an accident.
One of the girls had turned faint and in the general rush to help her, Christina had been pushed up against a machine... For a terrible moment, her heart felt iced, before a worker switched off the mechanism.
When she went over the incident, she felt doubtful about one of the Good Samaritans who had dragged her to safety. Meta Rosenburg was a thin attractive brunette, slant-eyed and over-painted. She was always expensively dressed, when she discarded her slops, while her style of living indicated an income which could have a tainted source.
Christina shared the expenses of a flat with Ida Brown—a plump reliable girl. That evening, she was looking around at the comfort of the room with its fire and softly-glowing lights, when the telephone bell began to ring. As she went to answer it, a warning sense reminded her that ambushes were always prepared by fake invitations. Primed by her intuition, she was scarcely surprised to hear Meta's deep husky voice at the other end of the line.
"I'm throwing a sherry-party. Come over."
"No thanks." she replied. "I don't drink."
"But you must come. Montrose is here. He wants to know you."
Christina's heart beat faster, for—like all the girls at the factory—she was attracted by Montrose. He held an important position and was tall and handsome. There was also a legend about him that he had been an air-ace before a smash which took mysterious toll but thoughtfully left no visible marks.
"Montrose?" she repeated. "How do you get to know everyone?"
"Wait to be introduced," replied Meta derisively.
"Is it safe to pick up strangers?"
"Not safe, no. But the other way's too dull... I shall expect you."
Before she could protest, Meta rang off.
"You shouldn't keep on saying 'no,'" advised Ida Brown, who always listened to telephone conversations. "No wonder you are getting queer and jumpy."
"I'm not... Or am I?"
Suddenly weary of mental isolation and wholesale suspicion, Christina wanted reassurance from Ida.
"Snap out of it. Go to this sherry-party."
"I don't know where she lives."
"I'll look her up in the telephone book."
"Thanks... I will."
Christina told herself that it was important to reassure Ida, lest—in perfect innocence—she might start the first fatal whisper. In reality, however, it was the thought of Montrose's handsome face which lured her out into the blackout.
SHE put on an ice-blue frock and made up her face with delicate care. While she was slipping on a near-white coat, Ida came into the bedroom to tell her the number of her bus.
"I've written down the address and put it in your gas-mask carrier." she explained. "You get off at the terminus."
Her journey was reduced to such a simple and effortless proposition, that she felt ashamed of her former hesitation. But as she stood in the doorway of the entrance-hall of the Mansions, waiting to accustom her eyes to the darkness, a man nearly knocked her down.
Both laughed at the encounter, but she fell exactly as though she had bumped into the Invisible Man. It was with a return of her old inhibition that she snailed along the pavement, There was neither moon nor stars, while the air seemed tangible as a black curtain. When she had to cross the road, she trusted to the eyes of other pedestrians to detect the colors of the traffic lights—reduced to thin crosses of red or green.
She reached her starting point, only to realize the handicap of her poor eyesight. Other people boarded the vehicles while she remained on the pavement, running from bus to bus, as fresh ones drew up at the halt. Unable to see their numbers, she always left it too late and boarded them, to be told by the conductor "Full Up."
She was thinking rather desperately of Montrose when someone flashed a torch over the face of the crowd. It cursed him as one man, although—as the bus was stationary—there was no risk of an accident. Christina blinked at the tiny searchlight with a sense that her identity had been revealed. Her mind flooded with morbid wonder as to whether Ida were in league with Meta to lure her into a trap.
Her turn had come at last. She felt herself borne upwards to the step on a human surge and then pressed forward Into a darkened interior.
"Where's the empty seat?" she appealed. "I can't see a thing."
Helpful hands passed her along the aisle and drew her down on a seat beside a stout woman who smelt strongly of cloves.
"There you are, lidy."
With the comfortable sensation of being enclosed in the safety of on ark—tossing on a stormy sea—she felt the bus move onwards. From now on, the driver would have the headache. She was merely another fare—his responsibility.
They journeyed on through the black blanket, occasionally stopping with a back-breaking jerk, to avoid some too optimistic pedestrian. Presently, as the stout lady continued to overlap her, Christina fell as though she were slowly smothered by a feather-bed. Her chance of release came when a semi-visible young man who sat on the opposite side—level with their seat—leaned across the aisle.
"Change places with me, mother," he urge. "I want to sit by my young lady."
"Right you are, duck," consented the lady.
Christina waited for the exchange to be made before she spoke softly to her slimmer neighbor.
"I'm afraid I must break it to you. I'm not your friend."
"I know," said the young man. "I had to lake a chance on you. I saw your face when someone flashed a torch. I knew I could trust you."
ALTHOUGH his voice was uneven—either pitched to a
crack or blurred to thickness—his accent was educated
and inspired her with the confidence engendered by the
snobbish tradition of the old school tie.
"What do you mean?" she asked distantly.
"When I tell you, you'll think me mad," he said.
"I do already... Or drunk."
"Not drunk. No. I'm drugged... Like a fool. I had a drink with a man. He's following me on this bus... But you must see who you are backing—and use discretion."
Before she could protest, he lit a cigarette. In the flame of the match, she saw a face which was too charming and delicate for a man. Its oval shape—combined with fair hair and large blue eyes—suggested some universal Younger Brothers who needed coddling and protection.
"I seem to know your face," she said. "Are you at Fray's Munition Factory?"
"Yes," he replied eagerly. "I'm a draftsman there. You've probably seen me in the Canteen."
Then he lowered his voice to whisper.
"Are you one of Us?" he asked.
She scented a trap in time to avoid It
"Yes. I work there," she said coldly.
"Then you are in this too... Listen carefully. I've a letter here. It's desperately important. Secret Service. I got involved—never mind how... You must take it to Bengal avenue, sixth house on left. It's the second stop. The man is waiting to pounce on me when I leave the bus. But he won't suspect you."
Christina grew wretchedly uncomfortable as she listened. If she had not been enrolled for confidential service at the factory, she would have been immune to suggestion. Now. however, she was susceptible, because she admitted to herself that the young man's story could be true. Stolen documents, espionage, secret agents—these were the phantasy of Peace, but the commonplace of War.
She struggled desperately to get free of the coils.
"Don't talk like a film," she said. "I can't swallow that melodramatic stuff from a stranger."
"But you dare not refuse!" The young man's voice was stern. "It is not for myself. It is for England... Do you remember the address?"
"Of course not. I don't need it."
HEEDLESS of her refusal, he tore a leaf from his notebook,
and after scrawling on it, stuffed it inside her gas-mask
carrier.
"That's enough to remind you," he said, blinking his eyes. "My head's beginning to buzz. Thank heaven I lasted long enough to contact you. Look! That man—by the door He's waiting for me."
The vehicle was too dimly lit to distinguish faces, but straining her eyes in the gloom, Christina saw a tall man whose hard felt hat was jammed over his eyes. He was strap-hanging near the door; but as the bus slackened speed, he stepped out on to the platform. As he was above average height; he had to stoop slightly to scrutinize the passengers who were getting off at the stage. This crouching posture gave him an appearance of tense vigilance which made the girl think of a jungle beast on the hunt.
"I'll call the conductor," she whispered to the young man.
The words roused him out of his lethargy.
"For heaven's sake, no," he implored. "Don't start anything like that. The chap would plug him—and then us. We haven't got a chance in the dark. It's up to you. You—must—"
Suddenly his head jerked forward and then drooped, while his eyes closed, As she listened to his heavy breathing, Christina wondered what she ought to do. Self-interest, as well as common-sense, told her to keep out of the mess and continue on her way to the sherry party. On the other hand, in a remote lighted corner of her brain, was a reminder that Meta's Invitation might be a trap. In such a case, this mission—which involved her in no danger—might be a providential intervention.
There was third consideration which outweighed the others. The youth had spoken the truth when he said that she dared not accept the responsibility of inaction, if there was the slightest chance to prevent some vital leakage.
"Your friend's having a nap," grinned the conductor as he came up the aisle.
"Not mine," she said quickly.
As she disclaimed him, the man in the felt hat was swift to seize his chance.
"That's all right, mate," he said to the conductor. "My pal and I will see him home. He's had one over the eight."
THIS dramatic fulfilment of the young man's fears spurred
Christina to immediate action. She dared not extract the
secret document from the young man's gas-mask carrier, lest
she should fumble and attract the attention of the nearest
passenger. Such an action might look like an attempt to rob
a drunken man. Snatching up the young man's gas-mask carrier
from, the seat—in exchange for her own—she groped
her way to the door, where she waited for the next stop.
Fortunately the conductor did not remember her stage, since in the blackout, one girl looked much like another. He lowered her down on the pavement as though she were a precious consignment. Then she heard the ping of his bell and the bus rolled on its way.
In contrast with the subdued lighting of the vehicle, the surrounding blackness seemed pitch black as the depths of a coal mine; out after flicking her torch about, she discovered the name "BENGAL AVENUE," printed on the corner of a wall. The bus had dropped her on the left-hand side of the road, so she had only to walk straight ahead.
It was also a very lonely locality, for as she followed long stretches of stone wall, partially revealed by the light of her torch, she met no one, she heard no footsteps—no voices—no hoot of passing car.
"Everyone might be dead," she thought.
For the sake of morale, she told herself that there was light and life inside each blacked-out exterior. Civilization still functioned, for she had only to ring at a door to get in touch with humanity again. Probably, if she cared to deliver her document personally at No. 6—instead of dropping it into the letter-box—she would meet with a welcome.
"I suppose he lives here with his family," she thought.
In order to settle this point, she scraped his identification card from a pocket of the carrier—fishing out two Yale latchkeys, to get hold of it.
"Why two?" she wondered.
She knew the reason—or thought she did—after she had read the particulars about the young man in the bus, by the light of her torch. She discovered that his name was "Ivor Thomas" and that he lived in a North London suburb. Apparently No; 6 was an accommodation address, or belonged to a close friend, since he appeared to possess its key as well as his own.
She plodded on doggedly through the darkness, although she was beginning to wish she were not pledged to the adventure. At the back of her mind was a feeling of apprehension, while she was also teased by a sense of familiarity.
"I know this place," she thought "But when have I been here before?"
The answer crashed from the depths of her inner consciousness. This was her nightmare. There was the same long endless road—the utter blackness—the total loneliness. It only lacked the horror of gripping hands.
But those came later—in the dream...
She began to run—the fixity of her purpose propelling her on instead of turning back. It was panic flight which burned itself out, for when she was forced to stop, her heart was leaping as much from exertion as fright. She had reached No. 6, which was also named "Elephant House" and had two roughly carved elephants surmounting its gate-posts, to demonstrate its claim to the title.
WITH the feeling that her ordeal was nearly over—for
her run back to the bus-stop would seem much shorter—she
pushed open the heavy gate. As she groped her way up the
drive, the small dancing light of her torch revealed a general
appearance of desertion and neglect. The front-door steps were
dirty and the brass knocker had not been cleaned recently.
It was no surprise, therefore, to find that the slit to the letter box was blocked.
"I must unload this darn document," she decided. "It's too jolly risky to carry it round with me."
Once again she hooked up the two Yale keys, one of which fitted the lock. It turned easily as she pushed open the door and stepped inside into total darkness.
The precaution of shutting herself in, after she had slipped the key back in the carrier, was a test of her courage: but It was not until she felt secure from outside observation, that she flashed her light around.
The next second, she suppressed a scream as she stepped backwards in an instinctive movement to save herself from being trampled underfoot. Towering above her—from the wall—was the head of an enormous bull-elephant with gleaming tusks and upraised trunk. It dominated the most extraordinary hall she had ever seen.
It was screened with fretted woodwork and hung with the stuffed heads of wild beasts, as well as weapons.
"What a place," she murmured. "The home of Anglo-Indians, I should think. Wonder if the sahibs are at home."
Flashing her torch, first low and then high, she saw a dusty Indian carpet—partially covered with drugget—and a flight of stairs leading to a landing on which was posed a black marble statue. Beyond was a shorter flight of steps, the top of which was wiped out by shadows.
"Hullo! Any one there?"
Christina's hail was weak and tremulous, revealing that she was afraid of the empty house.
There was no answer to her call. Feeling that she had fulfilled her duty in England, she listened to the warning voice which told, her to get out of the house and rush back to safety.
"Run—run."
She was about to place the document on a carved teak table, when she noticed that she had torn a corner of the envelope in her extraction of the keys from the carrier. As she stared at the flimsy paper, she was assailed by doubt. It looked so unofficial that she told herself that she must see the contents before she left it.
Feeling guilty of crime, she ripped open the envelope—to reveal what she dreaded to find—tracings.
They confirmed her lightning suspicion. Ivor Thomas was a rat who was stealing the factory's secrets.. The men in the bus were trailing him; but to save himself from being caught with the evidence, he had fooled them and tricked her into taking it to his hiding-place.
Slipping the document into her coat pocket, she was about to rush from the house when she was startled by a noise from above. It was a heavy thud, as though a statue had crashed down from its pedestal. With a recollection of the figure on the landing, she flashed her torch upwards.
What she saw drained the blood from her heart... A stiff, white, shapeless bundle—like a corpse—was rolling down the stairs.
AT that moment, she understood this hypnotic force of
shock. She wanted to flee, but her muscles were locked so that
she could not stir, although the thing was drawing nearer to
her. Bumping from stop to step, it reached the landing, where
it lay—formless, without face or limbs, muffled in its
burial clothes.
As she stood and stared, suddenly Christina thought she detected a quiver in the object... Goaded by the elemental duty to make certain whether life was really extinct, she began to mount the stairs.
Kneeling beside the human parcel, she wrenched away a fold of linen and exposed the shriveled, sunburnt face of an elderly woman with an arrogant nose. Her brave old eyes smoldered in token of an unbroken spirit as Christina first tore away the scarf over her mouth and then dragged from her blackened lips the pad with which she had been gagged.
The woman drew a deep breath, gasping like a fish.
"Thank Heaven, I'm a nose-breather," she gasped. "I was choking. I heard you call—and I managed to make it under my own steam."
"Who are you?" asked Christina.
"Miss Monteagle. This house belongs to my brother—the General. We were in Cornwall when war broke out and we stayed on. I came up to see the house... I was attacked by thugs. Two of them." Her face grew suddenly tense as she added, "I can hear them in the cellars. Get help at once."
"But I can't leave you..."
"Quick. No time to loosen knots. If you can't make it, hide. Watch your chance to escape... Cover my face."
Although Christina lacked Miss Monteagle's uncanny faculty of hearing, she realized the urgency. After winding the corner of the sheet around the elder woman's head, she rushed down the stairs. The hall was clear, but before she could reach the door, a series of knocks on the wood, told her that Ivor Thomas was outside.
She was caught between two fires. The thugs had heard the summons and the sound of their footsteps in the distance was audible to her. Desperately flashing her torch around, she darted behind the velvet curtain which muffled a door—praying the while that the men would not come that way.
Her petition was mercifully granted, for the men entered through a low door at the rear. Although she could see nothing, Christina guessed that they carried a lamp from the faint glow which sprayed around the corner of the portière. Then she heard the catch withdrawn and someone entered the house.
"Has the girl left the plans?" asked Ivor Thomas—his voice cracking with excitement.
Without waiting for a reply, he dashed to the letter-box.
"Hell, it's nailed up," he complained.
"Sure, we had to pick an empty house," growled one of the men. "What's this about a girl?"
It was no satisfaction to Christina to learn that her suspicions were confirmed, since she was trapped and unable to save the plans. As Thomas told his story, she realized that he was cowed by the other men and eager to justify his action.
"The girl will come back when she finds the key," he assured them. "She fell for it all right. Besides it worked. The dicks had to let me go. The laugh was on me."
"Did they follow you?" asked a new voice.
"Hell, no. Why? They found nothing on me."
AS she listened. Christina noticed the difference between
the voices of the two men. One was gruff and fierce, but
the other frightened her more, because of its flat unhuman
quality. It was as though a dead man spoke from the grave.
She trembled violently as this second man made a discovery.
"I can see high heels in the dust. That girl has been here. Look around."
Even as Christina realized the horror of the situation, Miss Monteagle came into action! Risking a broken neck, she flexed her muscles in a supreme effort to distract attention. The men In the hall heard a thud from the upper darkness—outside the radius of their lamp—followed by the gruesome spectacle of a corpse-like object rolling down the stairs.
As Thomas gave a high, thin scream, like a trapped rabbit, Christina recognized her signal to escape. Not daring to creep towards the entrance, lest a man should turn his head, she leaped lightly over the thick pile of the carpet. Drawing back the catch of the lock, she slipped through the gap and drew the door softly to—fearing to shut it.
Once she was outside, she began to run, her high heels turning perilously on the slippery drive. She lost precious time in opening the heavy gate and barely reached the road before the sound of heavy footsteps in the distance told her that she was being followed.
Maddened by terror, she rushed on wildly, praying for help; but the road was as deserted as before. There was no welcome torch-light advertising an A.R.P. Warden on his round—no resident returning to his home. It was useless to scream—hopeless to hide in a garden; she knew that the glimmer of her white coat was visible and that if she tore it off her ice-blue frock would betray her.
Realizing that capture was inevitable, she determined that the men should not get the drawings; and since she could be tortured into revelation of their hiding-place, she must put them in a safe place.
Suddenly she remembered that—on her way to Elephant House—she had passed a pillar-box. Running blindly and keeping to the outside edge of the pavement, she collided with it before she saw it. The crash of the impact winded her completely, but before she collapsed, she managed to push the envelope through the slit.
Then she felt herself gripped by unseen hands, in ghastly fulfilment of her nightmare.
AFTER an interlude of strain and semi-suffocation,
when—blinded by a coat over her head, she had been
bumped along through the darkness—she realized that she
was back in the hall of Elephant House. She looked around her
fearfully, hardly daring to glance at a white shape doubled up
at the foot of the stairs, because of its hideously unnatural
posture.
With the exception of Thomas, the men had concealed their faces with dark scarves, while their eyes gleamed through slits in the material; but she recognized their tones.
It was the dead voice that spoke to her.
"Where is that envelope? If you don't talk, I can make you."
"Oh, I'll talk," she said with faint triumph, "I posted it in that pillar-box."
"Very clever," he sneered. "You may like to hear you've killed a man by that master stroke."
"Who? How?"
"The postman... If we force the box, it might attract attention. We will let him unlock it for us and then make sure he won't talk."
Christina stared at him in horror.
"It's all my fault. My fault."
She sat thinking, thinking—until her brain ceased to function. She had grown dead to emotion when she was startled back to life by the sound of knocking at the front door. It was so loud and persistent that the dead voice whispered a command.
"Gag the girl. Open the door, Thomas, and stall."
Nearly choked by the handkerchief which was roughly forced down her throat, Christina was dragged back into the shadow. She heard the door being opened a few inches and then Meta Rosenburg's voice.
"Where's Christina Forbes?" she demanded.
"Never heard of her," replied Ivor Thomas.
"You will... The police are here. Come on, boys."
At the sound of a shot, Christina closed her eyes. She kept them closed throughout the sensational fight which followed and did not open them until her gag was removed by her rescuing hero—Montrose.
LATER in the evening, she sat in Meta's flat. Montrose was
there, as well as Miss Monteagle, who smoked a cigar and drank
most of the sherry. The postman had already finished his round
in safety, after having delivered an unstamped envelope to the
detectives from the Munition Factory.
"Sorry my diversion failed to let you get clear away," remarked the sporting lady to Christina. "You made a hell of a noise. I'll never take you stalking... Lucky I didn't break my neck. I've broken every other bone, huntin', but I'm reserving that for my last fence."
"You were wonderful," Christina assured her, although her eyes spoke to Montrose.
"Want to know how the Master Minds found you?" cut in Meta. "Thomas left your gas-mask behind in the bus, since he was bound to be searched. He reckoned that when the conductor found it and took it to Lost Property, there would be nothing to connect it with him. But an A.R.P. Warden was on the bus and he spotted it and looked at your identification card. He's a bright local lad and knows me my sight—so when he found an envelope with my address on it, it seemed a good excuse to bring it round, as my flat was near."
As she stopped to refill the glasses. Montrose finished the tale.
"Meta got rattled as you hadn't turned up, while your gas mask proved you were on the bus. Fortunately we discovered a scrap of paper stuck in your carrier, with 'Bengal 6' scrawled on it. That gave us the Idea where you'd got out."
"It's wonderful," repeated Christina, still looking at Montrose. "The funny part is, I suspected Meta, when really she is one of Us."
Meta burst out laughing.
"Us?" she repeated. "You're too nice to be a mug. That sabotage-espionage is T.P.'s bright stunt to make the girls careful with the machinery. I know, because he's a relative of mine. Of course, the firm employs trained detectives."
"Oh," Christina's mouth drooped with disappointment. "It was such a thrill to feel part of the war."
"Never mind," said Miss Monteagle. "I'm dated, so I can afford to spout Kipling, although I can't say I'm quoting word for word.
"Two things greater than all things are.
The first is Love and the second is War,
And since we know not what War may prove...."
Intercepting the message flashing between Christina and Montrose, her bass voice softened to the tones of a girl who had vanished into the past, as she finished the quotation:
"Heart of my heart, let us speak of Love."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.