The Dark Eyes of London Read Online

The tenants of the other two were, she knew, spending the week-end in the country. The first floor was occupied by a bachelor Civil Servant, a hearty man whose parties occasionally kept her awake at night; the second floor by a newspaper artist and his wife; and she had no reason to complain of her neighbours.

    She had reached the second landing, her foot was on the stairs of the final two flights, when she stopped. She thought she had heard a noise, the faint creak of a sound which she had felt rather than heard. She waited a second, and then smiled at her nervousness. She had heard these creaks and whispers before on the dark stairs, but had overcome her timidity to discover that they were purely imaginary.

    Nevertheless, she walked up a little more slowly and reached the landing from whence rose a short flight of stairs to her own apartments. The landing was a broad one, and as she turned, with one hand on the banisters, she put out the other in a spirit of bravado as though she groped for some hidden intruder.

    And then her blood turned to water, for her hand had touched the coat of a man!

    She screamed, but instantly a hand, a big unwholesome hand, covered her face, and she was drawn slowly backward. She fought and struggled with all her might, but the man who held her had almost superhuman strength, and the arm about her was like a vice. Then, suddenly, she went limp, and momentarily the arm that held her relaxed.

    "Fainted, have ye?" said a harsh voice, and as a hand came feeling down for her face, the other arm relaxed a little more.

    With a sudden dart the girl broke free, ran up the remaining stairs and opened and slammed the door. There was a key on the inside and this she turned with a heart full of gratitude that she had never locked her bedroom door from the outside.

    She flew across the room, stopping only to switch on the lights, pulled out a drawer and took from its depths a small revolver. Diana Ward came from a stock which was not easily scared, and, though her heart was pounding painfully, she ran back at the door and flung it open.

    She stood for the space of a few seconds. She heard a stealthy footstep on the stairs and fired. There was a roar of fear and a blunder of feet down the stairs. Only for a moment did she hesitate, and then raced down the stairway in pursuit. She heard the thump of feet on the landing lower down, heard the rattle of the door, and came down the last flight to find it open and nobody in sight.

    Concealing the revolver in a fold of her dress, she stepped out into the Charing Cross Road. At this hour there were few pedestrians, and she looked round for some sign of her assailant. A light motor-van was driving away, and the only person she saw near at hand was an old blind man. The iron ferrule of his stick came "tap-tap-tap," as he stumbled painfully along.

    "Pity the blind," he wailed; "pity the poor blind!"

    "Sunny," said Larry to his servitor, "London is a terrible city."

    "Indeed it is, sir," said Mr Patrick Sunny.

    "But it has one bright, radiant feature which redeems it from utter desolation and abomination."

    "I think you're right, sir," said Sunny. "I've often noticed that myself, sir. I'm very fond of the picture houses myself."

    "I'm not talking about the picture houses," snapped Larry. "Nothing is further from my thoughts than the cinema houses. I am talking of something different, something spiritual."

    "Would you like a whisky-and-soda, sir?" asked Sunny, at last securing a tangible line.

    "Get out!" roared Larry, bubbling with laughter. "Get out, you horrible materialist! Go to the pictures."

    "Yes, sir," said Sunny, "but It's rather late."

    "Then go to bed." said Larry. "Stop a bit. Bring me my writing-case." He was wearing his favourite indoor kit, a dressing-gown, a pair of old cricketing trousers and a soft shirt, and now he filled his polished brier with a sense of physical well-being.

    "Believe me, Sunny," said Larry Holt impressively, "there are many worse places than London on a bright spring day, when your heart—" There was a faint rat-tat-tat on the other door. "A visitor at this time of night!" said Larry in surprise. It could not be from Scotland Yard, because Scotland Yard use the telephone freely, a little too freely sometimes.

    "I think there's somebody at the door, sir," said Sunny.

    "That's a fine bit of reasoning on your part," said Larry. "Open it." He waited and heard a brief exchange of questions. The visitor was a woman; and before he could guess who it was, the door opened and Diana Ward came in. He saw by her face that something had happened, and went to meet her.

    "What is the matter?" he asked quickly. "That man didn't follow you?"

    "What man?" she demanded in surprise.

    "Flash Fred." She shook her head.

    "I don't know whether it was Flash Fred," she said grimly, "but if he is somebody particularly unpleasant, it was probably he."

    "Sit down.