The Door with Seven Locks

Dick Martin’s last official job (as he believed) was to pull in Lew Pheeney, who was wanted in connection with the Helborough bank robbery. He found Lew in a little Soho café, just as he was finishing his coffee.

“What’s the idea, colonel?” asked Lew, almost genially, as he got his hat.

“The inspector wants to talk to you about that Helborough job,” said Dick.

Lew’s nose wrinkled in contempt.

“Helborough grandmothers!” he said scornfully. “I’m out of that bank business⁠—thought you knew it. What are you doing in the force, Martin? They told me that you’d run into money and had quit.”

“I’m quitting. You’re my last bit of business.”

“Too bad you’re falling down on the last lap!” grinned Lew. “I’ve got forty-five well-oiled alibis. I’m surprised at you, Martin. You know I don’t ‘blow’ banks; locks are my speciality⁠—”

“What were you doing at ten o’clock on Tuesday night?”

A broad smile illuminated the homely face of the burglar.

“If I told you, you’d think I was lying.”

“Give me a chance,” pleaded Dick, his blue eyes twinkling.

Lew did not reply at once. He seemed to be pondering the dangers of too great frankness. But when he had seen all sides of the matter, he spoke the truth.

“I was doing a private job⁠—a job I don’t want to talk about. It was dirty, but honest.”

“And were you well paid?” asked his captor, polite but incredulous.

“I was⁠—I got one hundred and fifty pounds on account. That makes you jump, but it is the truth.

“Why on earth shouldn’t you, my good man?” she demanded coolly, and at that moment Dick Martin was aware of her, in the sense that she emerged from the background against which his life moved and became a personality.

Her eyes were grey and set wide apart; her nose straight and small; the mouth was a little wide⁠—and she certainly had golden-brown hair.

“I beg your pardon!” he laughed. “As a matter of fact”⁠—he had a trick of confidence which could be very deceptive⁠—“I’m not at all interested in this infernal robbery. I’m leaving the police force tomorrow.”

“There will be great joy amongst the criminal classes,” she said politely, and when he saw the light of laughter in her eyes, his heart went out to her.

“You have a sense of humour,” he smiled.

“You mean by that, that I’ve a sense of your humour,” she answered quickly. “I have, or I should very much object to being called ‘my good girl’ even by an officer of the law”⁠—she looked at his card again⁠—“even with the rank of sub-inspector.”

There was a chair at his hand. Dick drew it out and sat down unbidden.

“I abase myself for my rudeness, and humbly beg information on the subject of Signor Stalletti. The name means no more to me than John Smith⁠—the favourite pseudonym of all gentlemen caught in the act of breaking through the pantry window in the middle of the night.”

For a second she surveyed him gravely, her red lips pursed.

“And you’re a detective?” she said, in a hushed voice. “One of those almost human beings who protect us while we sleep!”

“Police!” said the man impatiently. “Do you think that would worry me? No, it’s the fellow⁠—I spoke to you about. There’s something wrong in that business. Slick, I kept one thing from you. While I was working I saw this guy slip a gun out of his hip and drop it into his overcoat pocket. He stood holding it all the time I was working, and it struck me then that, if I’d got that door open, there’d have been no chance of my ever touching the thousand. Halfway through I said I wanted to go out, and, once outside, I bolted. There was something that chased me⁠—God knows what it was; a sort of animal. And I hadn’t got a gun⁠—I never carry one in this country, because a judge piles it on if you’re caught with a barker in your pocket.”

All the time they had been speaking they were passing through the vestibule and up the stairs to Slick’s flat, and, without invitation, the burglar followed him into the apartment.

He led the man into his study and shut the door.

“Now, Lew, let me hear the truth⁠—what was the work you were doing on Tuesday night?”

Lew looked round the room, out of the window, everywhere except at Dick. Then:

“I was trying to open a dead man’s tomb!” he said in a low voice.

“Ow-w-w!”

She shuddered and almost fainted with horror. It was a squeal she heard, the squeal of a terror-stricken animal⁠—another, deeper, guttural, horrible!

She listened at the door, her senses tense, and heard a faint, deep sobbing, then heard no more. Ten minutes passed, a quarter of an hour, and then there came to her ears the noise which had first aroused her⁠—the shuffling of bare feet upon a hard, smooth surface. She had caught a glimpse of the passage when Dr. Cody had opened the door. She knew it was covered with oilcloth, and it was on this that the feet were moving. Nearer and nearer they came, and then stopped. Somebody turned the handle of the door and drew back the bolts. She was frozen with terror; could not move, could only stand staring blankly at the door, waiting for the apparition which would be revealed to her.

Again the handle turned, but the door did not move. Whoever it was had not the key. There was a silence. Somebody was trying to break in the door and she caught a glimpse of a huge, misshapen toe in the space between the door and the floor. Then, from under the door, came three huge, squat fingers. They were wet and red with blood. The hand gripped the bottom of the door and strove to lift it. At the sight of that obscene hand the spell was broken, and she screamed, and, turning, fled in desperate panic to the chair beneath the skylight. As she looked up she saw a face staring down at her through the window⁠—the white face of Cawler, the chauffeur.

Martin nodded. He was searching the walls for the electric light switch, and after a while he found a board with five, and these he turned over. One lamp lit in the hall and one on the landing above, out of sight. Outside switches controlled the lights of this room. He pointed to the door. Suddenly he felt Sneed’s hand grip his arm.

“Look!” muttered the inspector.

He was glaring upstairs, and, following his eyes, Dick saw something which at first he did not understand. And then slowly he realized that he was looking at the shadow of a figure cast against the wall of the landing. It was obviously leaning over the unseen banisters, for the carved uprights and the broad rail showed clearly against the papered wall. The light he had lit on the landing above was evidently placed low, and behind the motionless figure, and thus it was that the shadow was clear and without distortion.

Slipping an automatic from his pocket, he ran up the stairs sideways, looking back over his shoulder, and Sneed saw him halt on the landing, look for a moment, and then:

“Come up, Sneed.”

The inspector followed, reached the first landing, and turned to look into a white face that was staring down at him with unseeing eyes⁠—the face of a stout woman who was half leaning, half lying, across the banisters, both her hands clenched, and on her face a look of unimaginable horror.