The Dumpling : $b A detective love story of a great labour rising — John Shaqi
The Dumpling : $b A detective love story of a great labour risingKernahan, Coulson
General
The Dumpling : $b A detective love story of a great labour rising
Kernahan, Coulson
Detective and mystery stories; English fiction -- 20th century
I do not know why I shuddered--perhaps out of fear for Grant;
perhaps at the thought of the sacred figure of the Saviour in such
surroundings; perhaps merely because I was tired and overstrained.
But with the shudder shaking me, almost like an ague, I turned, closed
the door, and made my way down the stairs.
From the second landing window, the yard which lay immediately
underneath and the stretch of waste land beyond, looked more
darkly-desolate than ever. A single light on the far side of the river
made a snake of fire, writhing and twisting as if in the throes of
torturing agony upon the water. Otherwise, nothing moved, nothing
stirred.
Arrived at the first landing I saw that the chink of light from under
the two doors had gone, so that the stairs, leading down to the passage
and to the kitchen door, were in absolute darkness. As I reached the
bottom of the stairs and turned into the passage, I was immensely
relieved to see that the front door stood ajar, evidently as the two
men who had just gone out had left it. The whiff of outer air which
blew through the opening was infinitely sweet after the reek and stench
of opium in the den upstairs. My spirits rose at a bound. Surely I must
have been mistaken in thinking the house other than merely a place for
the smoking of opium. If anything illicit, anything in the nature of
crime, were carried on here, the door would not have been left ajar,
as I now found it, nor have been left unlatched and unlocked as it was
when I had first come to the place.
All this went through my brain in a flash while my foot was between the
last step of the staircase and the passage floor. Then suddenly the
picture I had seen, when looking in the eyes of the leader of the gang,
flashed before me--the picture of a man in a dark passage, as I at that
moment was, and two other men waiting to brain him as he groped his way
out.
"It's precious dark here!" I said aloud as if to myself, and in the
most unconcerned voice I could assume. "I must go carefully, for I
nearly came a cropper over the break-neck stairs in going up."
Meanwhile, I had been feeling stealthily in my pocket for a match-box.
Ah! I had it!
Slipping out a vesta, I struck it sharply, and placing the palm of my
open hand between the flame and myself, so as to shade my own face and
to cast what light there was in the direction of the door, I scanned
the passage as if I had of a sudden become all eyes. Stretched across,
just where it would take me over the ankle and so cause me to stumble
forward, was a piece of wire. Behind the door, and with what looked
like an iron bar, upraised ready to strike as I fell, was a man; and in
case he failed to finish me, another--for I saw the white face of him
peeping through the chink of the partly opened door--stood outside. And
then, as the light in my hand suddenly flickered and went out, I heard
behind me the stealthy steps of someone creeping down the stairs.
CHAPTER IV.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account