The Mystery of the Four Fingers. Fred M. White
beating slightly faster as he recognised in the other the now familiar form of Mark Fenwick. The mystery was beginning to unfold itself.
“That was a close thing,” Gurdon muttered, as he wiped his hot face. “I think I had better go back to my own room, and wait developments. One can’t be too careful.”
The lift-boy was still sleeping on the bed; but his features were twitching, as if already the drug was beginning to lose its effect. At least, so Gurdon shrewdly thought, and subsequent events proved that he was not far wrong. He was standing in his own room now, waiting by the ventilator, when he heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the wall. Two men had entered the room, and by taking a little risk, Gurdon could see that they were examining the unconscious boy coolly and critically.
“I should think about five minutes more would do it,” one of them said. “Better carry him out, and shove him in that little sentry box of his. When he comes to himself again he won’t know but what he has fallen asleep; barring a headache, the little beggar won’t be any the worse for the adventure.”
“Have we got all the stuff up now?” the other man asked.
“Every bit of it,” was the whispered reply. “I hope the old man is satisfied now. It was not a bad idea of his to work this little game in a great hotel of this kind. But, all the same, it is not without risks, and I for one should be glad to get away to that place in the country where we are going in a week or two.”
Gurdon heard no more. He allowed the best part of half-an-hour to pass before he ventured once more to creep through the ventilator and reach the landing in the neighborhood of the lift. Everything looked quite normal now, and as if nothing had happened. The lift boy sat in his little hut, yawning and stretching himself. It was quite evident that he knew nothing of the vile uses he had been put to. A sudden idea occurred to Gurdon.
“I want you to bring the lift up to this floor,” he said to the boy. “No, I don’t want to use it; I have lost something, and it occurs to me that I might have left it in the lift.”
In the usual unconcerned manner of his class the boy touched an electric button, and the lift slowly rose from the basement.
“Does this go right down to the cellars?” Gurdon asked.
“It can if it’s wanted to,” the boy replied. “Only it very seldom does. You see, we only use this lift for our customers. It’s fitted with what they call a pneumatic cushion—I mean, if anything goes wrong, the lift falls into a funnel shaped well, made of concrete, which forms a cushion of air, and so breaks the fall. They say you could cut the rope and let it down without so much as upsetting a glass of water. Not that I should like to try it, sir, but there you are.”
Gurdon entered the lift, where he pretended to be searching for something for a moment or two. In reality, he was scraping up some of the yellow sand which had fallen from the box to the floor of the lift, and this he proceeded to place in a scrap of paper. Then he decided that it was absolutely necessary to retire to bed, though he was still in full possession of his waking faculties. As a matter of fact, he was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Nevertheless, he was up early the following morning, and in Venner’s bedroom long before breakfast. He had an exciting story to tell, and he could not complain that in Venner he had anything but an interested listener.
“We are getting on,” the latter said grimly. “But before you say anything more, I should like to have a look at that yellow sand you speak of. Bring it over near the light.”
Venner let the yellow stuff trickle through his hands; then he turned to Gurdon with a smile.
“You look upon this as refuse, I suppose?” he said. “You seem to imagine that it is of no great value.”
“Well, is it?” Gurdon asked. “What is it?”
“Gold,” Venner said curtly. “Pure virgin gold, of the very finest quality. I never saw a better sample.”
V. A PUZZLE FOR VENNER
Venner sat just for a moment or two with the thin stream trickling through his fingers, and wondering what it all meant. With his superior knowledge of past events, he could see in this something that it was impossible for Gurdon to follow.
“I suppose this is some of the gold from the Four Finger Mine?” Gurdon suggested. “Do you know, I have never handled any virgin gold before. I had an idea that it was more brilliant and glittering. Is this very good stuff?”
“Absolutely pure, I should say,” Venner replied. “There are two ways of gold mining. One is by crushing quartz in machinery, as they do in South Africa, and the other is by obtaining the metal in what are called pockets or placers. This is the way in which it is generally found in Australia and Mexico. I should not be in the least surprised if this came from the Four Finger Mine.”
“There is no reason why it shouldn’t,” Gurdon said. “It is pretty evident, from what you told me last night, that Mark Fenwick has discovered the mysterious treasure house, but that does not account for all these proceedings. Why should he have taken all the trouble he did last night, when he might just as well have brought the stuff in, and taken the other boxes out by the front door?”
“That is what we have to find out,” Venner said. “That fellow may call himself a millionaire, but I believe he is nothing more nor less than a desperate adventurer.”
Gurdon nodded his assent. There must have been something very urgent to compel Mark Fenwick to adopt such methods. Why was he so strangely anxious to conceal the knowledge that he was receiving boxes of pure gold in the hotel, and that he was sending out something of equal value? However carefully the thing might have been planned the drugging of lift attendants must have been attended with considerable risk. And the slightest accident would have brought about a revelation. As it was, everything seemed to have passed off smoothly, except for the chance by which Gurdon had stumbled on the mystery.
“We can’t leave the thing here,” the latter said. “For once in my life I am going to turn amateur detective. I have made up my mind to get into Fenwick’s suite of rooms and see what is going on there. Of course, the thing will take time, and will have to be carefully planned. Do you think it is possible for us to make use of your wife in this matter?”
“I don’t think so,” Venner said thoughtfully.
“In the first place, I don’t much like the idea; and in the second, I am entirely at a loss to know what mysterious hold Mark Fenwick has on Vera. As I told you last night, she left me within a very short time of our marriage, and until a few hours ago I had never looked upon her again. Something terrible must have happened, or she would never have deserted me in the way she did. I don’t for a moment believe that Mark Fenwick knew anything about our marriage, but on that point I cannot be absolutely certain. You had better come back to me later in the day, and I will see what I can do. It is just possible that good fortune may be on my side.”
The afternoon was dragging on, and still Venner was no nearer to a practical scheme which would enable him to make an examination of Fenwick’s rooms without the chance of discovery. He was lounging in the hall, smoking innumerable cigarettes, when Fenwick himself came down the stairs. Obviously the man was going on a journey, for he was closely muffled up in a big fur coat, and behind him came a servant, carrying two bags and a railway rug. It was a little gloomy in the lobby, so Venner was enabled to watch what was going on without being seen himself. He did not fail to note a certain strained anxiety that rested on Fenwick’s face. The man looked behind him once or twice, as if half afraid of being followed. Venner had seen that same furtive air in men who are wanted by the police. Fenwick stopped at the office and handed a couple of keys to the clerk. His instructions were quite audible to Venner.
“I shan’t want those for a day or two,” he said. “You will see that no one has them under any pretext. Probably, I shall be back