by John Creasey
Salmon had a chance, provided he could be freed and given artificial respiration, but the chances of getting him out of here were almost negligible; it would take hours to pull him free, and if he were cleared the car would almost certainly crash on top of them.
Roger stood up, and eased his aching back, but there was no time to rest. The gaping underbelly of the big old car was very close to his head, and the only chance of preventing it from falling was to support it with clayey soil, and it would take him a long time to do that. It might be possible to push it farther on top of the MG, but there was always the danger that if he did that it would dislodge the smaller car – and bury him and Salmon completely.
What the hell should he do?
He seemed absolutely remote from the world. He could not see the top of the cliff because of the overhanging car, and behind him the sea was splashing much higher than it had been even half an hour before. There was a howl of wind, too, lashing at the water, lashing at Roger; it was bitterly cold.
He seemed to stand still for an age, but it was only a few agonising seconds, while he decided what he ought to do.
The obvious thing, the only safe thing for himself, was to get away from here and climb ten or twenty yards up the cliff. If he did that, he would be quite safe from falling soil and sand, from the cars, from all of the obvious dangers; and sooner or later someone would come down for him. Someone was probably on the way now, but it would take a long time, and there had undoubtedly been a big cliff fall in the wake of that car.
Who had allowed it to roll forward?
The question came in and out of his mind as he knelt down again, glancing up at the sanctuary of the cliff ridges not far to his left, and ten yards above him. Of course, he couldn’t leave Salmon. But as, he began to dig again, and heard the creaking and the groaning of the earth under the weight of the cars, he found himself clenching his teeth. Mind pictures of Janet and the boys became vivid and compelling. Janet seemed to be saying: ‘You can’t help them, come away while you can.’ And wasn’t that true? Was there any way in which he could help Salmon and the fireman? Wasn’t he simply throwing away his own fife in a forlorn attempt at saving these men? It was one thing to be a hero, but to throw one’s life away was madness. He owed Janet and the boys more than that. He owed Janet and the boys more than that! The wind was like ice on his back, and yet sweat was dripping off his forehead.
He heard a crunch of sound.
He darted back, stubbed his toes into the earth, and could not go any farther. Staring upwards, he saw the gaping chassis dropping towards him, slowly, menacingly, and there was absolutely nothing he could do.
It stopped.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead, and paused in his digging, looking at Salmon’s pale, dirty streaked face. The man was dead. He, Roger, was simply making a fool of himself. What was the use of trying to save a dead man? Once he attempted to pull Salmon up it would loosen so much more of the fallen dirt and rock, that the car would come right down on him. It was already almost touching him when he stood up. He went on digging.
Then, from behind him, he heard a shout. He did not turn round swiftly, for he was afraid of making any sudden movement, but his heart began to pound. The man shouted again. He did not know who it was, but assumed that it was one of the firemen; several of them might be hurrying down the ropes he and Salmon had used; they wouldn’t have any harness, but it was comparatively easy to climb down.
‘Can you hear me?’ the man called.
‘I can hear you,’ Roger called back.
‘Can you get free?’
‘There’s a man buried alive,’ Roger said quietly.
‘What’s needed to get him out?’ The stranger’s voice was calm and detached, reminding him of Dr Arnold, but this wasn’t Arnold, it was a younger man.
Roger called: ‘Why don’t you come and see?’
‘There are two of us here. Tell us what you want, and one of us will go back for it.’
Thank God for a man of intelligence.
‘All right,’ called Roger. ‘The car which fell over the cliff is balanced just above Miss Richardson’s MG, and only some loose earth is stopping it from falling. If it falls, it will bury me as well as the other man – Salmon.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind. We need spades, shovels, and something to shore up the earth and stop the car from falling. I don’t think there’s much time.’
‘I follow,’ the man said. ‘We’ll fix it. Are you all right for a while?’
‘Yes.’
There was a murmur of voices, then sounds of footsteps as someone scrambled up the cliff-side beyond the ridges which separated them from Roger. Roger began to dig again, putting all the loose earth behind Salmon’s head, building up a little more resistance to the slow, remorseless droop of the car.
Then he heard the scrambling footsteps close by, and the man who had called out spoke from just behind him.
‘Won’t be half a jiff.’ He was still reassuringly calm. ‘I can size the situation up better from here.’ There was a long pause. ‘With a bit of luck, if we could lift some clay soil between us, we could tilt that Old Reliable the other way, and get us out of a lot of trouble. Are the chap’s nose and mouth clear?’
‘Clear as I can get them.’
‘If you back about four paces, and then move over to the left, you’ll see what I mean,’ the stranger said.
Roger backed cautiously, a long step at a time. With each, his foot went ankle deep in earth, but he could free his foot without difficulty. Then he stepped on to firmer ground, and turned round to see who was here.
This was young Peter Key, whom he had seen on the headland with his father and brother only half an hour ago. This was the quiet and the so-called unimaginative son. His fair hair was unruffled, his fresh complexion was clear and healthy, and he had very clear grey eyes. He was not really good-looking, but there was something wholesome about him, and oddly, something a little dull, that showed in the set of his rather large chin, and in the expression in his eyes. He was in complete command of himself and the situation, and nothing was likely to put him off his stroke. He couldn’t be more than twenty-six or seven, Roger judged. He soon saw what young Key meant.
Seen from here, the big old Austin showed up in different perspective. It had now reached a corner of the roof of the MG and, at the moment, was almost balancing on that corner and tipping down towards Roger, Key, and Salmon. If sufficiently heavy soil could be pushed into the right position any danger of it falling farther towards them would be gone; then they could safely put their weight against it at one corner and push it backwards. There was a risk that it would dislodge the MG, but from what he recalled of the original position of the smaller car, it would take a lot of dislodging.
‘See what I mean?’ said Peter Key.
‘Yes,’ said Roger. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
‘Right, Superintendent,’ Key said, much as he might have said, ‘Yes, sir,’ in his days of military service.
It took them ten minutes of heaving and straining to get the rocks into position, another five to push the big car back so that there was no danger from it. Then, together, they began to dig Salmon out. He was free to the waist when two more firemen, two policemen carrying spades, wooden stakes, ropes, and a pulley arrived, and soon Salmon was stretched out on a flat ledge, being given artificial respiration. The hopeless digging began for the little fireman. More men arrived, and then a launch carrying half a dozen men and more equipment came close inshore, and the men waded to the ridges, which were now half submerged.
By then, daylight was fading.
‘Don’t know whether we’ll save Salmon, but if we don’t you won’t be able to blame yourself,’ said Peter Key. ‘Bloody awful business. I’ve known Salmon since I was knee high. Used to help me across the road when I was let out on my own to buy ice-cream.’ His clear eyes were hard and frosty. ‘And the fireman’s an old Corby chap, too. Superintendent, I know you�
�re all in, and this is hardly the time to harass you, but we want the swine who did this. I want a hand in catching him, too – especially for what he did to Rose.’ He seemed suddenly to be talking to himself as he spoke of Richardson’s daughter, and there was a different expression in his eyes; a softening.
Roger said: ‘What’s the latest news of her?’
‘I don’t know any more than you do. She’ll be in Kemble Hospital by now, I hope. If they killed her—’ He broke off.
Roger said: ‘Do you know of anyone with a motive for killing her?’
‘I do not. Nor does anyone in Corby. There isn’t a woman more liked—’ Peter Key broke off, having declared his feelings so clearly, and when he went on it was in a harsher voice: ‘The man must be mad.’
‘It could be,’ said Roger. His head was aching badly, his back seemed ready to break, and his legs wanted to double up beneath him. The thought of hoisting himself up on that rope was repugnant, but it had to be faced. Then he asked the question which had been nagging at the back of his mind since the big old car had first come crashing down. ‘Does anyone up top know how that car came to topple over?’
‘Someone took off the brakes,’ Peter Key answered. ‘It’s Sam Soley’s Old Reliable. He swears he meant to put a stone under the wheel, but forgot – he never had any car sense. He’d left the car facing the cliff where there’s a one-in-ten slope. Someone only had to release the brakes and it would do the rest by itself. Someone didn’t want a happy ending, did they?’
As he finished, a man wearing a thick blue jersey and a sailor’s cap came up and said: ‘You two had better come by boat, hadn’t you?’
Roger felt an enormous relief.
‘Good idea,’ said young Key. ‘Any more for the Skylark? Take it easy Superintendent. I’ll lend you a hand.’
Chapter Sixteen
Two Dead, One Alive
The launch took three-quarters of an hour to get to Kemble, the nearest coast town with a hospital, and it was nearly seven o’clock when Roger came out of a hot bath, put on clothes provided by the local police, and felt reasonably fit and able to cope. The ache across his back was the worst consequence of his digging, but that only made him move more slowly and more cautiously than usual. His head was fairly clear, and on the launch and in the bath he had been trying to assess the situation. Was Peter Key right, for instance, and had someone released the brake of Sam Soley’s car? Why had the farmer left it pointing towards the cliff edge so dangerously? Why should anyone want to send the car crashing? One thing was quite certain; anyone would have known that it would follow the path of the MG, and if it had been done deliberately, then it must have been in an effort to make sure that something in the MG was destroyed – an effort ruthless enough to risk the lives of at least three people. Three?
An idea flashed into Roger’s mind as he went into the office of the Superintendent of the Kemble Police. Tenterden was there, with the local chief, a big, burly man named Clark, who kept in the background most of the time and seemed a little over-awed by Roger.
‘Glad you’re looking so well,’ Tenterden said, and there was no doubt of his relief. ‘I was afraid you’d had it, Handsome.’
‘You weren’t half as afraid as I was,’ said Roger. ‘How’s Salmon?’
Tenterden raised his hands, and let them fall. ‘So he’s gone,’ said Roger heavily, and the news drove the other thought out of his mind. ‘How about the little fireman?’
‘Dead when they dug him out.’
Roger felt depressed and heavy-hearted. Salmon had been so keen, so game to go down those ropes, and but for the grace of God he, Roger West, would have been that side of the MG. In fact, he had sent Salmon on to the side which had proved the fatal one.
Tenterden said: ‘I’ve got a hell of a job on later, got to tell his wife.’ He rubbed his thick neck. ‘You suspect that second car was sent over deliberately, Handsome?’
‘I’ve wondered.’
‘I’ve questioned everyone who was there, and your chap Brown made sure I didn’t miss anyone,’ said Tenterden. For the first time, he smiled. ‘When Brown realised what had happened and thought you were a goner, he would gladly have clapped everyone there into clink. Couldn’t have been more upset if you’d been his blood brother. He’s checking over every statement, looking for something which might help to find out who did it. The thing is, Soley left his driving-door window wide open – he always does. Hates a stuffy car, and likes to be able to put his hand inside and get things off the seat – like his pipe, or matches, or gloves.’
‘Did anyone see him lean in today?’
‘Yes – for some gloves,’ Tenterden said. ‘Anyhow, someone just had to pass the car, push an arm through that window, and release the hand-brake. We’ve got men down there working on it now, might pick up a print.’
Roger said. ‘Yes. Who might have done it?’
‘Soley himself obviously, either of the Key brothers, Mrs Richardson, Sydney Richardson, the three newspaper chaps, and two of our men,’ said Tenterden. ‘By cross-checking, we’ve managed to rule out everybody else we know. All the people I’ve mentioned passed between Soley’s car and one next to it. Mrs Richardson and Sydney R. were together, the others were there one by one.’
‘No one else on the list?’
‘No one on the list, but there were several strangers about,’ said Tenterden. The car was one of half a dozen dotted about there, and someone could have sneaked from one car to Soley’s, then nipped back. Brown and my men will work all night to try to find out who else can go on the list, you needn’t worry about that.’
‘Thing that puzzles me,’ began Clark, and then stopped and looked apologetically at Roger.
‘Go on,’ Roger urged.
‘Don’t want to interfere,’ Clark said, ‘but the thing that puzzles me is why the car rolled over at all. I mean, it could have been an accident—’
‘Try telling Brown that,’ interpolated Tenterden.
‘Got to face facts,’ Clark said stubbornly. ‘But if it wasn’t an accident, why should anyone do it a-purpose?’ Tenterden didn’t speak.
Roger said: ‘How well do you chaps know the headland?’
‘Pretty well,’ answered Tenterden.
‘Could anyone at the top be sure that the men carrying Rose Richardson had reached the sea?’ asked Roger. ‘Don’t follow you,’ said Clark.
‘You mean, that everyone up top heard that she was alive and that someone might have made a desperate last-minute attempt to kill her and make sure she couldn’t talk. That right?’ Tenterden was eager.
‘Yes’
‘Well I’m damned,’ said Clark. ‘Well, what’s the answer, Art? If you ask me, no one could see that launch until it was some way out to sea. At the time the car went over it would only be fifty or sixty yards off shore. Could check the timing all right,’ he went on, ‘but you’ve got a point, Mr West.’
‘I’ll say he has,’ said Tenterden. ‘Couldn’t see the reason for it before, but if someone had to make a last-minute attempt to kill Rose—my God, that’ll be the answer!’
Roger said: ‘Well, did it succeed?’
‘Did what succeed?’
‘The second attempt to kill her?’ Roger asked, and felt almost absurd to put the question that way, instead of the direct: ‘Is Rose Richardson alive or dead?’ The weight of knowing that Salmon had gone was still heavy upon him.
Tenterden exclaimed: ‘Didn’t you know? She’ll pull through, Handsome, that’s one bit of good. They think she’ll be able to tell us what happened this time tomorrow. I thought you knew.’
‘No,’ said Roger heavily, and he closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them widely and forced a smile. ‘Well, that’s fine. We’ll need two men in her room until she’s conscious, one man at the door, and one man at the window. If someone was so anxious to kill her that they’d let that car fall over the cliff, they won’t stop at trying to kill her while she’s in hospital. Have you—’
&nb
sp; Tenterden jumped to his feet.
‘You telephone the hospital, Clark,’ he said. ‘I’ll go right over.’
‘Right you are,’ said Clark, but as he lifted the receiver he glanced at Tenterden and said: ‘How about dinner? I warned the Cliff Hotel to have a table reserved for us, but they ought to know whether we’re going.’
Tenterden looked at Roger.
‘Like to eat here, or in Corby? It’ll be an hour at least before we get to Corby, and—’
‘Here.’
‘I’ll bring Mr West over to the hotel, and meet you there,’ said Clark.
Young Peter Key and his brother Paul, who was ten years older, looked fifteen years older, and had all the signs of a heavy drinking, candle-at-both-ends life, were sitting in the dining-room of the Cliff Hotel, a large room with plush-seated chairs, huge crystal chandeliers, a curiously out-dated appearance of pomp and ceremony. All the waiters were in tails and white ties, the maitre d’hôtel was a little white-haired, white-bearded man, who obviously did not know whether to give preference to the Keys or to the police, and managed quite successfully to steer a half-way course.
They ordered soup, steaks, chips, and peas. A huge charcoal-broiled steak was put in front of Roger, enough for two or three meals. He did not feel as hungry as he might have done. He kept thinking of Salmon, of the way the Richardson girl had nearly died, and the freak chance which had saved her. He knew the folly of relying on a single witness for a vital statement, but there was a chance that she would be able to name whoever had attacked her. He found himself thinking of Richardson, too, and that wild rush to get over the edge of the cliff and down to his daughter. Richardson was the next man to talk to seriously, and the problem was to know exactly how to tackle the man. The velvet glove wasn’t right, but the iron hand might be too rough. It wasn’t easy to forget the struggle over Blake, and his own misgivings.