by Sapper
She pulled herself together: she must act, and act quickly. At any moment Veight might return: somehow she must get the message through to Waldron before then. And suddenly she saw the way. With a little cry she tottered forward and collapsed on the straw as if half fainting. Would the old man suspect?
Close beside her Waldron tossed and turned, but her eyes were fixed on Hoskins. And to her unspeakable relief he seemed quite oblivious of her at all. He was still pacing up and down talking under his breath, and after a while he walked halfway across the room towards the stairs as if impatient at the delay. She seized the opportunity.
“Listen,” she whispered urgently. “Can you understand me, Mr Waldron?”
His movements ceased; he lay very still.
“Who are you?” he muttered.
“A friend,” she said in a low voice. “Help is coming. Pretend to give away your secret. Do you understand? Pretend. Say you will. Gain time.”
He made no answer; all she could see was the faint outline of his white, twitching face close to her. And then came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and she rose quickly to her feet again. Had she succeeded? Had she got the message through into that drug-bemused brain?
Fearfully she peered over her shoulder into the blackness. Of the man who had spoken to her she could see no sign, but she knew he must be there, hiding somewhere.
“I can’t go on any more.”
Came Waldron’s voice, weak and quavering, and a thrill of triumph ran through her. He had understood: he was going to do as she had told him.
“That accursed drug is torture; it’s sending me mad.”
He babbled on incoherently for a little while, while Veight and Belfage stood beside Hoskins watching him. And then Gregoroff joined them.
“Are you going to tell us your secret?” said Veight quietly.
“Secret! The secret of my gas. God! I must have sleep. My brain is going.”
Again he rambled on, and Veight said something in a low tone to Gregoroff, whilst the girl watched breathlessly.
“Listen, Waldron,” said Veight, stepping forward on to the straw, “you shall have all the sleep you want once you have told us your formula.”
“I can’t think,” muttered the other. “I tell you, I can’t think. I must have sleep before I can remember it.”
Once more Veight and Gregoroff whispered together, and it was Hoskins who spoke next.
“If we let you sleep will you tell us afterwards?”
“Yes. I will tell you afterwards. But now I must sleep. It is days since I have slept.” His voice rose to a scream. “Keep the rats away. For God’s sake – keep them away! And the horror in the corner. It is waking up.”
Doris Venables felt her scalp beginning to tingle: something big was stirring on the far side of the dungeon.
“I am sorry you don’t like the doctor’s pets,” said Veight. “That is only a baboon, but he can be very nasty if he slips his collar. Speak now. You can remember, Waldron.”
But the only answer was a vague babbling, from which the one word sleep continually emerged.
“It is better perhaps to let him sleep,” came the soft voice of Cortez who had joined the group. “Marijuana acts this way sometimes. But if when he wakes he does not then speak, he shall sleep for good. How say you, Señor Hoskins?”
“I will speak when I wake,” said Waldron brokenly. “Only take me from this awful place.”
“Give him a shot, Doctor,” cried Veight. “We must chance it. And now, young woman, we must decide about you.”
The girl shrank back. Subconsciously she watched Belfage bending over the man on the ground with a hypodermic syringe in his hand; hazily she wondered if the unknown man would again come to her out of the darkness. And then suddenly she realised that something had happened to distract their attention from her.
Meredith had appeared, and he was talking excitedly to Veight and Gregoroff. His voice was low, and she could not hear what he said, but it was evidently news of importance.
“Good.” She heard Veight’s curt voice. “We will see this man at once. There is no time to be lost. Belfage – attend to the girl. And if you mess things up again, I’ll smash you into pulp, you drunken brute.”
She saw the doctor lurching towards her, and gave a little cry of terror. Surely the unknown would help her; surely… A hand was clapped over her mouth; she felt the prick of a needle in her arm.
“Carry her upstairs, Gregoroff. We must get down to this at once.”
She felt herself being picked up by the huge Russian; realised she was passing through the hall where a strange man was standing. Then wave after wave of sleep and oblivion.
“She’ll do,” said Veight, who had followed her upstairs. “Now mind you don’t say the wrong thing, Gregoroff.”
The two men went down into the hall, where Meredith was talking to the stranger, while Hoskins with a puzzled look on his face stood by listening.
“It is ferry important that you should come as soon as may be convenient,” the stranger was saying in the soft voice of the Highlander. “The plans are finished, but for how long Mr Graham iss intending to remain I cannot tell you.”
“What plans?” cried Hoskins. “I don’t understand.”
“The plans of the Graham Caldwell aeroplane,” explained the stranger in some surprise. “Surely you haf heard of it.”
“It’s this way, Mr Hoskins,” put in Veight. “We had been intending to keep this as a surprise for you, but this man – by the way, what’s your name?”
“MacDonald. Angus MacDonald.”
“But now that MacDonald has come–”
“You will pardon me – Mr MacDonald,” said the Highlander.
Veight bowed ironically.
“Now that Mister MacDonald has come we can keep it as a surprise no longer. Up in the heart of the Highlands, Mr Hoskins, a man named Graham Caldwell has been experimenting with an aeroplane of his own invention. It is now perfected, and as an instrument of war it constitutes the most deadly advance in flying the world has yet seen.”
“That iss so,” agreed the Highlander.
“It was our intention to give you the plans of this machine as an unexpected present.” He winked surreptitiously at Meredith. “Now, I fear, they will be like the birthday present of more mature years that one chooses for oneself.”
“How are you going to get them?” asked Hoskins.
“That will be ferry simple,” said MacDonald. “My cousin, who iss a member of the Key Club, will be there on the spot to help you.”
“What is the name of your cousin?” asked Meredith.
“The ferry same as myself.”
“But the man we have been corresponding with is called MacPherson.”
“Mister MacPherson is there as well. He too iss a cousin.”
“So there are two members of the Key Club there,” said Veight.
“That iss so.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I am continuing my journey to London, where I am a student in the University. I haf been on my holiday in the Highlands.”
“How did you know of this house?” cried Meredith suspiciously.
“My cousins told me. I do not know how they knew. And now if you will allow me I will be getting along. I am not a member of the Key Club myself, but I am in sympathy with its wonderful ideals. I wish you all success, gentlemen; it iss a ferry great honour to haf been even such a humble help in such a worthy cause.”
He bowed, and a few moments later the roar of a motor bicycle outside announced his departure.
“How the devil did they know of this house?” repeated Meredith. “That sot Belfage, I suppose.”
“Don’t let’s worry our heads over that,” cried Veight. “Once those plans are in the hands of the British Government we’re done. That is to say, Mr Hoskins,” he corrected himself hastily, “it is going to be very much harder to get hold of them. So there’s not a moment to be lost.”
&nb
sp; “You are right,” cried Hoskins. “What is your idea?”
“I suggest that Meredith, Gregoroff and I–”
“Cortez is coming too,” remarked Meredith quietly, his eyes fixed on Veight.
“As you please,” said Veight. “I suggest then that the four of us should go at once by car to the north of Scotland and obtain the plans by force if necessary. You and Belfage, Mr Hoskins, will remain here and obtain from Waldron his secret when he wakes.”
“Good,” said Hoskins. “I agree. I will go and talk to the doctor now.”
“And what do you really propose, Mr Veight?” sneered Meredith as the old man went upstairs.
“Just what I said – with one exception. Those plans are going to be of twice the value to us if we can keep Graham Caldwell’s mouth shut while we sell them.”
“How do you suggest doing that?” said Meredith softly.
“By bringing him and his mechanic here.”
“Here!”
“Yes – here. Doped, in a caravan.”
Meredith stared at him, and then whistled under his breath.
“By God! that’s an idea,” he said. “In a caravan.”
“When we’ve got ’em here we can foist off any yarn on the old fool. He’ll look after them, leaving us free to sell in the best market. We’ll stop in York or some big place on the way through and hire the machine.”
“I’m on,” cried Meredith. “And I’ll vouch for Cortez. When do we start?”
“At once,” said Veight.
“I’ll get him. But don’t forget one thing, Veight: no funny stuff.”
“How the hell can there be any funny stuff, you damned fool? We’re all in it together, aren’t we? I’m not asking you to walk, am I? You’re yellow, Meredith: plain yellow. Go and get Cortez. If we drive in turn we should be there by dark tonight even with the caravan. We’ll have to fix the aeroplane for ourselves when we come back,” he said to Gregoroff, as Meredith disappeared scowling. “And if ever I get that scum where he ought to be,” he added softly, “may the Lord have mercy on his soul.”
Chapter 13
For mile after mile the road stretches like a white ribbon over the high ground that lies between Lairg and Altnaharra. It is a narrow road with passing places every few hundred yards, and save for the inn at Crask no house exists. Occasionally a fisherman going north to Tongue passes in his car and is gone; once a day the mail van performs its allotted task.
On each side of the road the ground is flat and green. Tiny streams intersect it, making big patches of bog. But parts of it are hard and even: suitable for the landing of an aeroplane. And it was on such a spot that there stood two buildings and a tent. The buildings were obviously improvised. One was a small tin shanty and it was erected close to the tent. The other was much larger and had been placed some two hundred yards away. Beside the tent a dilapidated motorcar was standing, and a rough track leading to the road a quarter of a mile away showed how it had got there. On the front seat an Aberdeen drowsed peacefully, save for a periodical search for an elusive flea. But except for the dog there was no sign of life in the little encampment.
In the short northern night though it was well after ten it was still light enough to read. But the man who lay motionless on the small hill that rose halfway between the tent and the road was otherwise occupied. His eye was glued to a telescope, and the telescope was focused on the place, five miles away, where the road going south to Lairg dipped over the horizon and disappeared.
After a while he shifted his position to ease his stiffness, and glancing round he frowned. Black clouds were gathering over Ben Kilbreck, and rain would not improve his vigil. Not only would it increase his discomfort, but it would decrease the visibility during the half-hour of light that still remained.
For two hours nothing had passed. Save for the harsh call of a grouse, and the faint murmur of the coffee-brown stream that gurgled softly over the stones by the bridge under the road, no sound had broken the stillness. But the man, being a Highlander born and bred, was used to such conditions. He was in his element, though it would have made a townsman fidget.
Suddenly he gave a little grunt of satisfaction: coming over the rise was a motorcar towing a caravan. His watch was over, and shutting the telescope with a snap he rose to his feet. Then, with a final glance at the tent and huts, he walked slowly down to the bridge on the road.
It would be at least ten minutes before the car could get there, and he lit a cigarette, his features showing clearly in the light of the match. And to a student of physiognomy his face was an interesting one. His eyes were very blue, with the network of tiny wrinkles round them which mark an open-air life. But their expression betokened the thinker, and the firm mouth and chin denoted the man of purpose as well. No dreamer, this, even if he was an idealist.
At last the lights of the car – for by now darkness had fallen – breasted the rise a few hundred yards away, and throwing away his cigarette the man stepped into the road. It was possible, though not likely, that this was not the car he was waiting for, but that risk had to be taken. It proved groundless. With a grinding of brakes the machine pulled up and a voice hailed him.
“Is that you, MacPherson?”
“Aye,” he answered laconically. “’Tis himself.”
“Your proof?”
MacPherson fingered the lapel of his coat.
“The badge of the Key Club,” he said. “Any further proof you may be needing you’ll find in the camp. And who may you be?” he continued as the man who had accosted him came into the light. “Are you Doctor Belfage? I was told he was a little man.”
“My name is Meredith,” said the other, “and I and my friends are acting for Doctor Belfage, who is ill. We are all enthusiasts for the cause. By the way, MacPherson, how was it your cousin found us at Horsebridge?”
“Because I told him. Your doctor who is sick said you were there. Come, let’s be getting on with it. And I’ll thank you to give me a lift as far south as Inverness.”
He led the way along the path, and a muttered colloquy took place behind him.
“That will be all right,” said Meredith at length. “We will take you to Inverness. Have you the two men safe?”
“You’ll be seeing for yourself in a minute,” answered MacPherson.
“Because,” continued Meredith softly, “you had better remember we are all armed. In case, you know, Mr MacPherson; just in case.”
“Is that so?” said MacPherson quietly. “The grouse are good this year, but it is not yet the twelfth.”
“What the devil is the man talking about?” came a harsh voice. “And why is he dressed like a damned woman?”
“Shut up, Gregoroff, you fool,” snapped Veight. “Haven’t you ever seen a kilt before?”
“Probably not,” said MacPherson affably. “Being true to our principles, he naturally did not wait to see them during the last war.”
From behind came a chuckle, and Gregoroff snarled angrily.
“If you laugh at me, you filthy little Dago, I’ll bash your head in.”
“I did not laugh,” said Cortez venomously. “Keep your hands from me,” he screamed, “or I knife you!”
“I didn’t touch you, you rat.”
“Then who did? Something – it brush my face.”
“It would seem, Mr Meredith, that your friends do not like the spirits of the moor,” remarked MacPherson gravely. “Perhaps they are right. Strange things happen in my country. Maybe you will hear the death dirge if you are lucky – or unlucky.”
“For God’s sake let’s hurry,” said Meredith uneasily. “This place gets on my nerves.”
“It is because you are not used to it,” answered MacPherson. “But reassure yourself. We shall not be long now. The hut is just in front of us. If you will wait a moment I will light the lamp.”
He opened the door and struck a match, while the four men crowded in after him.
“There is the inventor, Mr Graham Caldwell, and that i
s his mechanic.”
Seated on opposite sides of the table and breathing stertorously were the two men. Their heads were sunk on their arms; between them stood an empty whisky bottle.
“I put a little something in their whisky,” explained MacPherson calmly.
“Good!” cried Meredith. “Where are the plans?”
“In yonder cupboard,” said MacPherson.
“And they are complete?”
“They were finished yesterday.”
“You are certain there are no others in existence?” cried Veight, putting the tracings on the table in front of him.
“Absolutely certain,” answered MacPherson. “I myself have drawn the greater part.”
The four men looked at him.
“Could you redraw them?” asked Gregoroff.
“From memory? No, I could not. But why should I be wanting to? You have them, and shortly the whole world will have them.”
He spoke indifferently, leaning against the window.
“Excuse me, Veight,” said Meredith suddenly. “Not all of them in your pocket, if you don’t mind. I will take half.”
“Don’t be such a suspicious fool,” cried Veight angrily. “Anyone would think I was trying to double-cross you.”
“Exactly what I do think,” answered Meredith calmly. “Hand ’em over.”
“Just so,” said Cortez. “We will have half.”
For a few moments there was a tense silence which was broken at last by the Scotchman.
“Are you not then all together in this?” he asked mildly. “What does it matter who has the plans?”
“Of course, of course,” said Meredith hurriedly. “Just a little personal matter, Mr MacPherson. Mr Veight is wanting all the credit himself at headquarters – aren’t you, Veight?”
“Here are two sheets,” remarked the German, pushing them over the table. “And what the devil is the matter with you?” he continued to MacPherson.
For the Highlander, his hand outstretched, was pointing through the window.