Crow's Inn Tragedy

by Annie Haynes

  “Automatics! Dear, dear! And you never had a chance to use them, either! Shows how differently things pan out to our anticipations, doesn’t it, inspector? And police whistles? If we were only to sound one how the scene would change! You did not neglect any precautions, did you, inspector?”

  And while the jeering questions went on the grasping yellow fingers were going on too, until the prisoners stood mother naked before their tormentors, their bare limbs bound round and round with cords.

  “So now we come to grips,” said the masked man, and this time Steadman thought he caught something faintly familiar, and one question that had troubled him of late was answered for ever. “I hope you’ll not be much inconvenienced by this return to a state of nature,” the man on the platform went on. “I fear you may be rather cold, but it is unavoidable under the circumstances, and it will not be for long. Then I feel sure you will neither of you be cold any more. Now, now, inspector!”

  For a while John Steadman stood motionless, his short-sighted eyes peering at that yellow-clad figure; the inspector was swearing big strange oaths.

  “You do look so funny, you know, inspector”—and this time Steadman could almost have fancied there was a feminine echo in that vile laughter—“and your language is too dreadful. But this outrage, as you call it, had to be. Clothes are so identifiable, as I am sure you have learnt in your wide experience, my dear inspector. But now this conversation, interesting as it is, must end. And I think we must silence that unruly member of yours, inspector!”

  The silver bell tinkled sharply. In an instant those soft hands had seized the two men and gags were thrust into their mouths, and tied with cruel roughness. Then bandages were bound over their eyes and rougher, harder hands held their pinioned arms on either side and pulled them sideways.

  Steadman felt certain they were being taken out by the door by which they entered, and very carefully his trained legal mind was noting down every slightest indication of the direction in which they were being taken. A farewell laugh came from the platform.

  “So this is really good-bye. I trust, I do trust that your poor bare feet may not be hurt by the path along which you have to travel. But in case some injury should be unavoidable let me assure you it will not be for long, that much sooner than you probably anticipate the pain will be over.”

  Steadman could have fancied that there was something hysterical in that last laugh. But he had not time to think of it, to speculate as to the identity of the figure on the dais that the yellow domino and the mask concealed. He was being hurried along at a rate that did not give him time to raise his naked, shackled feet. They dragged helplessly along the stone pavement, for, once they had left that sinister yellow room, there were no carpets. Two or three times Steadman felt wood and guessed they were being taken through rooms, and several times for a few paces there would be oilcloth. Once his knee was banged against something the he felt certain was the corner of a wooden chair, once from the wood a splinter ran into his foot. It was evident that either they were being taken in and out or that many of the houses in that neighbourhood must have means of communication, and must necessarily be in the occupation of members of the Yellow Gang.

  At last there was a pause, a door was unlocked and they were pushed inside a room with bare plank floor. They were propped up against the wall; something was thrown on to the boards; the bandage over Steadman’s eyes was pulled roughly off. A voice with a harsh, uncouth accent, singularly unlike the soft purring voice that had spoken from the dais in the Yellow Room, said abruptly:

  “The Great Yellow Dog has sent you these two rugs. They will serve to keep you warm. He regrets very much that you will be kept waiting. But unfortunately it is low tide and the river is not up yet.”

  Then the door was closed, they heard the key turn; the captives were left alone in their prison. Steadman’s eyes, aching from the tight bandage, were full of water; for a few minutes he could see nothing. He would have given worlds to rub his eyes, but he could not move his arms one inch upwards. However, as the mist before his eyes cleared he saw that they were both propped up against a plain whitewashed wall, in a room that was absolutely bare, except that a fur rug lay at his feet and another at the feet of the inspector farther along.

  Steadman could turn his head, almost the only movement that was free, and he saw that the poor detective had fared worse at the hands of their capturers than he had himself. Furnival’s face was grazed on the forehead and cheek. It was flecked with blood and slime. As Steadman watched, his fellow-sufferer sank on the rug at his feet with a muffled sound of utter exhaustion. Steadman was not inclined to give up easily and, leaning there, he tried to work the knot of the string that tied his gag, but in vain, the members of the Yellow Gang did their work thoroughly. He looked round the room. It was absolutely bare of furniture and indescribably dirty. It was lighted dimly by a small window set rather high and guarded by iron bars. As Steadman’s dazed faculties returned he became aware of a lapping sound and realized that the river must be just outside. The full meaning of that last message from the Yellow Dog dawned upon him now.

  As Steadman gazed round the room and then at his exhausted companion, the conviction forced itself upon him that, as far as all human probability lay, their very moments were numbered. Try as he would he could not free his hands. There appeared to be no possibility of escape except by the door or window, and he had heard the door locked and saw that it was of unusual stoutness, while the iron bars across the window spoke for themselves. In his present helpless condition what gleam of hope could there be?

  He followed Furnival’s example and dropped on the rug at his feet, finding the fall unpleasantly hard even with the rug over the floor.

  As he lay there trying to rest his aching bones, while his eyes watched the particularly solid-looking door hopelessly, he became aware of a faint, sliding, grating sound. With a sudden accession of hope he glanced around him. The inspector, lying on his rug, apparently heard nothing. For a few minutes—they seemed to him an eternity—Steadman could see nothing. He was telling himself that the noise he heard must be that of some mouse or rat gnawing in the woodwork, when his eye caught a faint movement under the door. Hope sprang up again as he watched.

  Yes, there could be no mistake, something was moving! There was just a narrow space under the door; had there been a carpet it would have been useless, but, as it was, that sliding, scraping sound continued and presently he saw that it was the blade of a knife that was coming through, a short, sharp blade it looked like, and he guessed that it was the handle that was proving the difficulty. Presently, however, it was overcome, and with an apparently sharp push from behind knife and handle both came through. Something white, a piece of paper, was fastened on to the latter. Steadman lay and gazed at it. The distance between him and the door, short though it was, seemed, in his present state, almost insurmountable, and yet in that knife and bit of paper lay his only chance of life. And there was so little time! Not one tiny second to be wasted. By some means he must get possession of the knife.

  The door was on the same side as that on which he was lying and the distance from the edge of the rug to the knife was, as far as he could judge, something like six or eight feet, more than double his own height. Bound as he was he could move neither arms nor legs to help himself. Common sense told him that the only way he could reach the knife was by rolling towards it. And rolling would be no easy matter. Still, it was not an impossibility and as long as he was on the rug not particularly painful. But crossing the bare boards was a very different proposition, dragging his naked feet inch by inch across the roughened dirty surface was a terrible job.

  More than once he told himself that he could not do it, that he must lie still and give up. But John Steadman was nothing if not dogged. He had not attained the position he had occupied at the Bar by giving way under difficulties, and at last his task was accomplished. He lay just in front of the door with the knife close to his side. But his difficulties were b
y no means over yet. Unable as he was to move his hands, how was he to cut the strong cords which bound him. Fortunately for him his hands were not fastened separately, but his arms were tied round his body tightly, the cord going round again and again. It was a method very effective so long as the cord was intact, but Steadman saw directly that, if he could cut it in one place, to free himself altogether would be easy enough. The question was, how was the cord to be cut in that one place? Steadman lay on the ground tied up so that he could not even free one finger, and the knife lay close to him indeed but with the blade flat on the ground.

  He lay still for a moment, contemplating the situation. He saw at once that his only hope was in the handle. At the juncture where this was entered by the blade, the blade was, of course, raised a little from the ground. Now if he could by any means push the knife along until he could rest his arm on the handle, thus tipping the blade up, if only a trifle, work the cord against it, he might fray the cord through and thus free himself. It was simple enough to recognize that that was what ought to be done, however, and quite another matter to do it. Time after time Steadman rolled over imagining that this time he must be on the handle, only to find that he had inadvertently pushed it away. With the perseverance of Bruce’s spider he at last succeeded. Arms, back and sides were grazed and bleeding, but the knife blade was at least a quarter of an inch from the ground. To get the end of the cord against it, to wriggle so that it was brought into contact with the blade forcefully enough to make any impression upon it was anything but easy, but it did not present the apparently insuperable obstacles that he had successfully grappled with in reaching the door and turning the knife round, Strand by strand the cord was conquered and at last Steadman was free. Free, with bruised and bleeding skin and stiffened limbs, and naked as he came into the world.

  Escape, even now, did not look particularly practicable; but the barrister had not been successful so far to give up now. The first thing to do was to free the inspector. Scrambling up from the sitting position to which he had raised himself he found Furnival lying on his rug regarding him with astonished eyes, and making vain attempts to wriggle towards him. At the same moment his eye was caught by the folded-up piece of paper which was attached to the knife handle by a piece of string, and which he had noticed when he lay on his rug. He caught it up in his hands and unfolded it. Across the inside was scrawled a couple of lines of writing:

  “The window looks straight on to the river, the bars across can be moved upwards. Jump out into the water at once. It is your only chance. If you delay it will be too late—from one who is grateful.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Steadman read the note over twice. Was it possible that they had an unknown friend in this haunt of the Yellow Gang? Or was it just another trap laid for them like the other communications that the inspector had received?

  However, there was no time for deliberation. He turned to the inspector, knife in hand. To cut the bonds that bound the detective was an easy matter, even for his stiffened hands, in comparison with the difficulty of freeing himself. Then, taking the gag from his mouth, he saw that the lips were bruised and swollen both inside and out, and the gag had been thrust in with such brutality that the tongue had been forced backwards and several teeth loosened. As the inspector began to breathe more freely the blood poured from his mouth. But there was no time to be lost.

  Steadman left his fellow-prisoner to recover himself while he padded across to the bars. In a moment he saw that his unknown informant was right. The bars would move upwards in their groove, easily enough. Evidently this window was used as a means of egress to the river. Inconvenient things could be pushed through and lost too! When the bars had gone, the window frame was quite wide enough to let a man get through. He leaned out. The moon was shining brightly, and he could see various small craft riding at anchor. As he spoke he heard the splash of oars and realized that at all hazards they must get into the river while the boat was about. Therein lay their hope of safety. He turned to the inspector, who had just struggled to his feet.

  “Can you swim, Furnival?”

  “Got the swimming medal at the Force Sports in 1912,” the detective replied tersely. “I haven’t quite forgotten the trick.”

  “I wasn’t bad as a young man,” the barrister said modestly. “We must do our best, you see.” He held out the note. “There is no time to be lost.”

  “If we are to turn the tables on the Yellow Dog,” the inspector said, speaking as plainly as his sore mouth would allow. He looked at the note. “Who wrote this?”

  “I haven’t the least idea,” Steadman replied truthfully.

  The inspector stooped stiffly and picked up the knife. Then he looked at the door which opened inwards.

  “We might keep them back for a bit with this, perhaps.” He went back and stuck the knife under the door, so that anybody trying to open it would inevitably jam it on the handle.

  In the meantime Steadman had twisted himself, not without difficulty, on to the window frame. He peered down. The water was still some distance below them, and it looked particularly dark and gloomy, but at any rate it was better than falling alive into the hands of the Yellow Dog. He tore the note into tiny fragments and let them fall into the river. Then he called out:

  “Come along, inspector. Pile up the rugs. They will give you a bit of a leg up.”

  Furnival pushed them along before him.

  “Now, Mr. Steadman, are you going first?”

  “I suppose so,” said the barrister dubiously. “You had better look sharp after me, inspector. They may hear the first splash, and then—”

  At this moment they became aware of steps and voices in the passage. The inspector almost pushed his companion off and hoisted himself in his place on the window frame. Steadman had no time to dive. He went down, it seemed to him, with a deafening splash and a roar of churning paddles. The inspector came down at once almost on top of him. The water felt bitterly cold, but after the first shock it braced their jangled nerves; their bruised bodies were grateful.

  The two men came up almost together, and moved by the same impulse struck out for the middle of the river. The moonshine was lying like silver sheen on the surface of the water. Steadman realized that their heads must afford a capital target to any members of the Yellow Gang who were in the house they had left. The thought had barely formulated itself before a shot rang out and he felt something just rush by his ear and miss it. There came another shot and another, and a groan from the inspector. Steadman realized that he must have been hit, but the injury must have been slight, for the inspector was swimming onwards. Meanwhile the shots were not passing unnoticed. From the small craft around, from the houses on the bank there came shouts; lights were flashed here, there and everywhere. Steadman became conscious of a familiar sound—that of the rhythmic splash of oars working in concert. He trod water and listened.

  There came a gasping shout from the detective.

  “The police patrol from the motor-launch down the river! They have heard the shots.”

  He struck out towards the on-coming boat, Steadman following to the best of his ability. The inspector’s shout was answered from the boat. It lay to and waited, and the two in the river could see the men in the boat leaning over peering into the water. There came no more shots, but as the inspector swam forward Steadman knew that the police boat had sighted them, and in another moment they were alongside.

  Willing hands were stretched out, and they were hauled up the boat’s side. The inspector’s first proceeding as soon as he had got his breath was to order the boat to lie to so that he might locate the house and if possible the window by which they had escaped. The police officer in charge looked at him curiously; it was evident that he resented the authoritative tone; and as he met his glance Steadman at any rate realized something of the extraordinary figures they must present in his eyes. Stark naked, bruised from head to foot, with faces bleeding and in the inspector’s case swollen out of all recognition they
looked singularly unlike Inspector Furnival, the terror of the criminal classes, or John Steadman, the usually immaculately attired barrister.

  But they were being offered overcoats; as the inspector slipped into his, he said sharply:

  “Inspector Furnival, of the C.I.D., Scotland Yard.”

  The police officer’s manner underwent an instant modification.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. You have been conducting a raid down here?”

  The inspector would have smiled if his bruised face had allowed him.

  “I fancy the raid has been rather the other way about,” he said ruefully. “We have been trying to make some discoveries about the Yellow Gang, laying a trap for the Yellow Dog, but unluckily we fell into the trap ourselves, as you see. Now, will you give me a bit of paper, officer. I want to take the bearings of this place. It is evidently one of the outlets of the Yellow Gang.”

  He looked across; on that side for quite a considerable distance the buildings abutted right on to the river. Farther along there appeared to be small boat-building businesses, just here there seemed to be only tall warehouses, and in almost every case the doors and windows were barred. Look as they would neither Steadman nor the inspector could identify the building from which they had sprung, and curiously enough no one in the boat had seen them until they were in the water. Some little time was spent in making fruitless inquiries of the small craft at hand. Though it would seem impossible that their plunge had been absolutely unseen yet to discover any witnesses would evidently be a work of time and time was just then particularly precious to the inspector. Giving the search up as useless he had the boat rowed back to the police launch. Distinct as the C. I. D. is from the River Police, the different branches of the service are frequently brought into contact. Inspector Furnival found friends on the motor-launch at once, and he and Steadman were soon supplied with clothes and everything they needed. Then, declining the police officer’s offer of rest, the inspector asked to be put on land. It was still dark but for the moonlight, but their various adventures had taken time. It was later than the inspector thought, and all along the river bank the various activities were awaking.