Читать книгу The Day the World Ended - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 13

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In the night hush—it was close upon four—I could hear the chattering Oos as it flowed in miniature cataracts but a few yards from my balcony.

Nature had claimed her due. Not even that ghastly omen of the Second Warning had sufficed to keep me awake. Yet I was not destined to sleep in peace. Something had reached me, deeply though I slumbered, and I had awakened automatically—as is the way of one who has lived in wild places.

Memory of a sound came over from sleep.

Creaking.

There was silence. No moon broke the blackness of the outer room, dimly visible from where I lay. Then, it came again—creaking.

I turned, noiselessly.

Someone—a vague silhouette—had stealthily raised the shutters!

Slowly and cautiously, hoping my manœuvres were unseen in the darkness of the alcove, I lifted myself upon an elbow. The figure was still there—stooping, I thought, and looking into the outer room. The shutter had been moved up fully three feet, by what means I could not imagine, but whilst it was high enough for cramped entrance, it was yet so low as to have hampered swift retreat.

I wondered if I had made any sound in the moment of awakening: the intruder was so motionless—so silent. My finger rested, tautly, upon the trigger of the Colt.

And as I lay there, watching, and awaiting the next development, this quietude became definitely horrible. I visualized that incredible thing with great gray-purplish wings, which had disappeared among the tombs.

What was it, so silent out there on the balcony, which peered in? Did it crouch, animally, on all fours? Was it crawling toward me?

Whoever, or whatever, was there gave no sign. Inch by inch I drew myself up, preparatory to springing out. My eyes were becoming used to the darkness. Where I had seen, or thought I had seen, the silhouette of a stooping figure, I now could detect vague half-lights. Was it possible that the intruder had withdrawn even as I lay watching?

And now, being ready, I cast off the sheets and leaped on to the carpet. In nine strides I reached the window.

The gap, three feet high, between floor and shutter was vacant. Nobody, nothing was there! I stumbled back to the switch beside the door. A swift flood of light came and I stood blinking toward the window.

Then I recrossed, grasped the cords, and raised the central shutter fully.

Barefooted, I stepped out on to the tiled balcony. A table and two chairs alone broke its emptiness. Right, three steps led down to a gravelled garden path.

Someone moved ... near me—below.

I leaned over the stone balustrade.

“Good-evening, sir,” said a gruff voice in German. “Has something disturbed you?”

A wave of relief flowed over me hotly. There was nothing supernatural about this voice—and human companionship I welcomed.

“Good-evening,” I replied. “Who are you?”

“Night watchman, sir. I patrol the gardens every half hour. These ground-floor rooms are so easily entered, you see.”

I was peering in the speaker’s direction. But he merely showed as a darker patch in the general gloom.

“They are!” I agreed. “When did you arrive?”

“At this moment.”

“Someone raised my shutters a few minutes ago.”

“That is impossible, sir, from outside, if they were fully closed.”

“They were fully closed.”

“Very strange, sir.”

“But you saw no one?”

“No one came round the south corner, sir—the way I arrived. Could you describe him?”

“No. But I saw him—dimly.”

“Nothing is disturbed?”

“No.”

“I will report the matter, sir. Will you please reclose your shutters?—and make sure they are safe.”

“I shall certainly take your advice!”

“Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night.”

I heard footsteps on the gravel path as I withdrew and began to pull on the cords which lowered the heavy shutter. I was so engaged when the steps, or so I supposed, returned along the path, and:

“Hullo, there!” called a voice—but not the same voice!

I desisted. The bottom of the shutter was still some five feet from the floor. I looked out. A beam of light shone blindingly into my eyes.

“Hullo to you!” I cried. “What the devil’s up?”

“This is what I am asking, sir,” the speaker replied. “I am the night watchman and it is my duty to ask.”

I was astounded. Not only was this voice unlike the other, but the man spoke with a sort of military brusquerie which inclined me favourably toward him.

Again I stepped out on the balcony.

Standing plainly visible on the path below in the light from my windows was a square-jawed, iron-gray figure wearing a perfectly fitting uniform, with smart field boots. The Regal badge was on his shoulder straps and glittered in his cap.

He stood at attention, looking up. His electric torch he held beside him like a rifle barrel at the order. We stared hard at one another, then:

“Come in for a moment, night watchman,” I said, “I have something for you to report.”

“Very good, sir.”

A moment later, ducking his close-cropped head, for he was all of six feet, and carrying his cap, he joined me in my room. He stood at attention again.

“Sit down,” I said. “Something very queer has happened here to-night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The night watchman bowed stiffly, and sat down on the extreme edge of an uncomfortable chair. As his unflinching regard met mine:

“Is there another watchman on duty in the gardens?” I asked.

“At four o’clock, sir, I am relieved.”

“No one else is on duty now?”

“No one—outside the hotel. There are two men on duty inside.”

“Then listen to what I am going to tell you,” said I, “and explain it if you can.”

As briefly as possible I outlined what had passed, and finally:

“The man impersonating you,” I concluded, “was probably the same who raised my shutter.”

“Very little doubt of it, sir. He didn’t know how much you could see. He slipped to the nearest cover and waited. Allow me to examine the shutter.”

He rose stiffly, crossed and tested the apparatus; then:

“It does not lock,” he reported. “There is some fault. This man must have known of it.”

“But why did he speak to me?”

“To find out if you could identify him.”

“Very daring.”

“I agree with you, sir. I must report this. A dangerous man is evidently about the hotel.”

There was a bottle of Pilsener on the writing table, so, taking it up:

“A glass of beer?” I suggested.

The night watchman immediately sprang to attention.

“Thank you, sir. But contrary to orders.”

One might have replied, “Nobody will be the wiser,” or “What does it matter?” But, looking into hard blue eyes, I said:

“You are an old soldier?”

“I had the honour of being a sergeant in the Prussian Guard, sir.”

As I had “had the honour of being” a lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, the situation did not lack drama, or comedy. But never a ghost of a smile disturbed the speaker’s grim lips.

“Orders are orders,” said I, and put the bottle down. “Good-night, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, and clicked his heels. “Good-night, sir.”

He turned smartly, ducked his head, and went out under the half-raised shutter. I heard his regular footsteps grow faint upon gravel paths.

If discipline could have conquered Europe, I reflected, then to-day Europe had certainly been one vast German Empire. I had never before met a night worker who could decline a bottle of beer at four o’clock in the morning!

My shutters were as safe as I could make them from outside interference when I turned in again; and my sleep was not disturbed a second time.