CHAPTER XXX
REVENGE
A week after Anna had taken up her residence at No. 9, DorringtonStreet, Senor Gabriel Dasso, as usual, left the house about eighto'clock. He had seen his fellow-lodger for the first time when he hadpassed her in the dimness of the stairs that night as he went out.
But the heavily veiled lady conveyed nothing to him at the moment, andthe stairs disguised the height, which was so strong a characteristicof Madame Paluda. Dasso had merely raised his hat and passed on.
For some reason a bad mood was upon the ex-dictator of San Pietro. Hedined as usual at an exclusive little restaurant in Soho, but hisfavourite dishes gave him no pleasure, and although he drank twice asmuch wine as was his custom, the black dog had settled firmly on hisback and refused to be dislodged.
The hole-and-corner life he was leading was becoming very wearisome toa man of his tastes, and his long daylight sittings in the littleBloomsbury room were getting sadly on his nerves. As he sat over hiscoffee and cognac he asked himself whether all this hiding wasnecessary, after all.
It was only the memory of the man he had seen reading the _Imparcial_in Paris which had prompted him to this secrecy. After all, it mayhave been a coincidence. True, the man had also been seen at Dieppe,but perhaps that was another coincidence. He had certainly notembarked on the _Arundel_ with him, and at Newhaven Dasso had noticednothing suspicious.
No, it was absurd; in the morning he would leave Dorrington Street andtake up his residence at some hotel and live a life more fitted to histastes. Mozara's body, he told himself, would have been burnt out ofall recognition in the fire--and ashes tell no tales.
Curiously enough, however, the woman he had passed on the stairs wouldcome unbidden into his mind. Perhaps some turn of the head, somegesture, some mannerism, reminded him of some one he had seen before.Later, as he walked round the promenade of the Empire the memory of thewoman on the stairs remained with him. He was drinking heavilyto-night, and as he drank the depression he had felt earlier in theevening returned to him tenfold; something seemed to tell him thatretribution was on his heels, and little devils hammered at the cellsof his brain telling him that his hour had come.
He walked home to Bloomsbury, but the exercise in the night air gavehim no relief. He was full of fancies--there were steps behindhim--hands stretched out and touched his shoulder. Once he seemed tohear his name called. He cursed softly and told himself that it wasnerves. He had no right to coop himself up in these dingysurroundings. It was life he wanted, rich and full.
It was nerves, again, he said, that made him imagine that a bittertaste came into his mouth after he had drank his _consomme_ that night;perhaps that infernal Liz had put too much salt in it.
As he undressed, a curious feeling of lassitude came over him. Heforgot his fears, forgot everything but that he wanted to sleep. Hesat on the edge of the little bed and fumbled with unhandy fingers withhis collar stud, but he did not undo it. With a little sigh his handsdropped nerveless into his lap and he fell back on the shabbyeiderdown, his face pale and his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
* * * * *
In the night Dasso dreamed a strange dream. It seemed to him that heawoke to find the room hazy with the grey light of the dawning.Through the little crevices between the slats of the Venetian blindsthe pale radiance edged its way, giving to objects in the room aghostly and unwonted appearance. Between the man on the bed and thewindow there seemed to stand the tall shadowy figure of a woman, afigure which, as he looked, moved steadily towards him.
It seemed to Dasso that the woman bent over him and that two blackpiercing eyes burnt into his very soul. He tried to speak but couldnot. Then he heard a voice. The figure was speaking to him in awhisper, low and vibrant with passion, telling him what the littledevils had been hammering into his brain--that his hour had come.
"--_your_ hour, Gabriel Dasso, and _my_ hour. For fifteen years I havewaited for this moment, and I have never doubted but that it wouldcome----"
The figure rose up and it seemed to Dasso that he watched her as sheglided silently about the room. It seemed to him that she took up thebasin which had contained his _consomme_ and emptied the little liquidwhich remained into the mould of a pot containing a palm which stood inthe alcove by the window. The whisper went on, and now Dasso toldhimself that this was Miranda's companion who was in the room with him.
"--and it is curious, is it not? that so experienced a conspirator asGabriel Dasso, master of plot and counterplot, should fail to noticethat his soup had, shall we say, a _distinctive_ taste? Is it notcurious that he should not have noticed that the lock of his door hadbeen tampered with? You have been insensible some hours now--and youare bound and gagged. But you are awake, Dasso, and you can see what Iam doing."
The figure came again over to the bed and bent down again above thebound figure.
"I am a woman of peace, Dasso, and it is no crime I am committing--onlyan act of justice. For fifteen years I have put the thought ofvengeance out of my mind, considering the living before the dead.After to-night I will take my place again in the world, without regretand without exultation--I am a tragic figure, am I not? the mother of amurdered child.
"Any time in those fifteen years I could have killed you, you did notknow me well and it would have been easy. But I _wanted_ you to knowme and to know why I am doing this. Perhaps God will let your agony beyour expiation."
The figure rose up and crossed over to the little gas stove that stoodin the fire-place. In even tones she went on--
"I am turning on the taps, here, Dasso, and all the crevices in theroom are stopped up. In a little while--when--when you are quite dead,I will put a cloth over my mouth and come in and cut off the scarveswhich bind you--they are silk and will leave no marks. Then I willrouse the house and complain of a smell of gas, and afterwards therewill be----"
The vision of the woman with the piercing eyes grew gradually fainter.... and it seemed to Dasso that he awoke suddenly.
* * * * *
The room was quite light now. It had been a bad dream. Dasso tried torise--why, what was this?
His hands and legs were firmly bound and his jaws ached with the strainof the gag. The air of the room was heavy with the fumes of gas, andhis chest pained him as though it would burst. In his ears were weirdnoises and he felt the sweat of fear wet upon his forehead.
Air--he must have air. The window near him seemed to mock him with itspromise of life. With an effort he managed to turn on his side, andinch by laborious inch, he worked his way to the edge of the bed--thenon to the floor.
He lay for a moment, breathing heavily, his heart beating in greatblows against his ribs. He struggled on to his knees and began aseries of grotesque hops towards the window.
But with each movement the effort grew more difficult and the strain onhis heart grew tenser. Twice he fell forward on to his face, once hestruggled again to his feet. The second time he remained lying wherehe had fallen, his head buried in the dusty fur rug beneath his goal.
Below, in the street, he heard the jangle of milk cans. Then a mancried cheerily to his horse and a cart rattled past the house. Somesparrows flew past the window chirping and quarrelling--they made ashadow on the blinds and were gone.
If only he could throw something and break a pane of glass.Air--air--not two feet away--and life----
With a superhuman effort Dasso was on his knees again--then, a look ofdespair and a great fear came into the white staring face, and with nosound he rolled over and lay still.