by Sapper
“Lumme, mate!” he cried, “what have you got on your coat? It looks like something out of a dust-bin.”
I glanced down, just as the soft, wet object fell with a flop on the carpet.
“‘Why,” he said with interest, “that’s the rotten plum I threw away an hour ago. You don’t half have funny habits at your bank, old man, do you?”
The situation was undeniably difficult, and the only thing to do was to carry it off lightly.
“I threw away an important paper by mistake,” I laughed.
“Well, you must have had St Vitus’ dance in your fingers when you picked it up again,” he said. “You’ve got an old bootlace and two toothpicks on your coat, sticking in the plum juice.”
He retired into the bar again, leaving me fuming inwardly. The man was absolutely ubiquitous: it seemed impossible to get rid of him. Moreover, it was one of those stupid little things that have the power of irritating one profoundly. To be seen by anybody grabbing rotten plums out of a wastepaper-basket is annoying: in this case it might have been worse but for the cool way I had ridden him off.
However, there was only one thing to be done – dismiss the matter as unimportant. I had retrieved the blotting-paper which was the main point: the next item on the programme was to post my letter to Drummond. And then the real business would begin.
I strolled along the street, thinking out the best means of tackling the problem. The whole thing boiled down to a question of subtlety and brain: of meeting cunning with cunning. Once I had obtained the next clue, or located our opponents’ main even if only temporary headquarters – strength would doubtless be required. And then Drummond could shed his ridiculous beard and emerge from seclusion. But until then – well, my letter was concise on that point.
My eyes suddenly narrowed: surely there was Drummond himself – beard and all – going into the Post Office. I quickened my steps: I felt that my letter was so vitally important that it would be worth while running some small risk to obtain immediate delivery. Every additional moment that he was at large in that absurd and obvious get-up increased our danger.
He was leaning over the counter as I entered, and I went and stood next to him.
“Are there any letters here for Bright?” he asked the girl. “John Bright.”
She turned round to look, and I nudged his arm gently, showing him at the same time the letter I held in my hand. Then I dropped it on the floor.
“One just come,” said the girl handing over Toby Sinclair’s note.
Drummond took it, and then, as she attended to me, he stooped down and picked up mine. I bought some stamps, and stayed chatting with the girl for a few moments to give him time to get away. Then with a feeling of relief that my warning had reached him safely I followed at a reasonable distance. That vital matter was settled anyway.
Once more I returned to the problem. Two main lines of action presented themselves, so it seemed to me. The first lay in shadowing the sailor, or the man with the damaged finger, or possibly both: the second entailed a further visit or visits to the Friar’s Heel, and both courses involved certain obvious difficulties.
It was true that up till now I had successfully avoided suspicion, but if I proceeded to attach myself permanently to either of the two men, how long should I continue avoiding it? If I tried to stalk them at a distance I was at once confronted with the fact that Salisbury Plain is not a very populous spot, and that I was almost certain to be discovered. On the other hand, if I went to the Friar’s Heel, what chance should I have of obtaining any clue? Why should anything be said to an inoffensive bank clerk?
The best course I decided would probably be a mixture of the two. I would cultivate the sailor’s acquaintance, and if I kept my ears open I might learn something of value either from him or the man with the damaged hand. But I would confine my dealings with them to the bar, or at any rate the hotel, unless some opportunity presented itself to accompany them anywhere outside. In addition I would pay a further visit to the Friar’s Heel, and see if I could pick up anything there.
And that was the conclusion I had reached as I turned into the lounge. Prudent, and at the same time calculated to give the maximum of result. The sailor was in his usual corner of the bar, and he waved a cheerful hand at me as I entered.
“Been picking up any more plums?” he enquired. “Anyway, what about that gargle you wouldn’t have before?”
“My shout this time,” I said genially, as I sat down. “Just been having a stroll through the town. What is it?”
He was leaning towards me, and signing me to put my head close.
“I believe,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “that that man’s beard is false.”
“What man?” I asked bewildered.
And then, to my rage and fury I saw that Drummond had just entered the bar. For a moment or two I could scarcely speak, so angry did I feel. After my urgent letter, after my imperative warning, for the triple distilled fool to parade himself again in the hotel of all places was too maddening.
“I don’t think so,” I managed to get out after a while. “Why should a man wear a false beard?”
“Why should a man pretend to know about butterflies when he doesn’t?” he remarked. “Why should a man pick rotten plums and toothpicks out of a wastepaper-basket?”
“I trust,” I said stiffly, “that you don’t think there is anything mysterious about me.”
“Lumme! no, mate,” he laughed. “There ain’t nothing mysterious about you.”
He was staring covertly at Drummond all the time.
“It is false,” he affirmed. “It waggles.”
“Confound him and his beard,” I cried. “Let’s have that drink.”
And even as I beckoned to the waiter, what little self-control that I still had after Drummond’s colossal idiocy very nearly left me. Who should be crossing the lounge and heading straight for the bar but Algy Longworth?
He came drifting in and I stared at him speechlessly. Had everybody gone mad I wondered. That he should come here at all must be due to Drummond. And that Drummond should have sent him knowing that the man with the damaged hand was in the hotel could only be explained by the fact that our much vaunted leader’s brain had failed.
True they took no notice of one another, and, after a time Longworth came over and sat down at the next table to ours. He, of course, did not know me, and I therefore judged it safe to address a casual remark to him. It might perhaps enable me later to warn him of what had happened and tell him to clear out.
“Motoring through?” I said casually.
He nodded.
“Jolly place, isn’t it?” he remarked. “I always love dear old Salisbury Plain, ever since I spent six months on it at the beginning of the war. But I don’t know this end very well: I was up Ludgershall way. Is it far from here to Stonehenge?”
“Stonehenge,” repeated the sailor. “About three miles, I suppose. This gentleman and I were there this afternoon.”
“I thought of going tonight,” said Algy, and I felt I could have cheerfully murdered him.
“Did you?” remarked the sailor, staring at him thoughtfully. “Well, it’s an interesting place, ain’t it, mate?”
He turned to me.
“What did they call that stone where we were talking? The Friar’s Heel, wasn’t it?” And as he said it he deliberately raised his voice. I had a momentary glimpse of the man with the damaged hand standing in the door staring at Algy. Then he disappeared, and I saw him leave the hotel quickly. The damage was done: the message had been given.
Chapter 13
In which I go to Friar’s Heel by night
I don’t mind confessing that I very nearly chucked in my hand. The whole thing was too disheartening. It was worse than disheartening – it was suicidal. I realised, of course, that my letter had not reached Drummond in time for him to warn Longworth that the sailor was one of the other side, but even so Algy should have known better than to discuss his plans with two complete
strangers. And now the thing was what to do.
Drummond had left the bar shortly after, and up till dinner time I had no chance of a private word with Longworth. I made him one or two covert signs, when the sailor was not looking, but he missed them all. In fact he seemed to me to be wilfully dense. He must know that I was about somewhere, even if he didn’t actually recognise me.
At dinner it was just the same. I came in to find him sitting at the long table between an elderly lady and a man who looked like a prosperous farmer. And not once did he even glance in my direction though I tried to catch his eye on several occasions.
The sailor had beckoned to me as I came in to sit at his table, but I had pretended not to see. I wanted peace and quiet to think out this new development. If Algy went to the Friar’s Heel that night he was for it. That much was obvious. Unless, of course, Drummond proposed to be there, too, and bring the matter down to brute force. But even if he did, surely he must realise that it was very unlikely it would help us to find his wife’s hiding-place.
Or did Drummond intend to lie hidden in the hope of getting a clue, and to use Longworth as a decoy without whom the clue would not be given? That, of course, was possible. But what the damned fool seemed to fail utterly to realise, even now, was the folly of doing such a thing in his present disguise. Already the sailor suspected him: once let him be discovered at the Friar’s Heel, even if his great strength did enable him to get away, suspicion would become certainty. Then they would either move Mrs Drummond, or finish her off right away, and we should be in a far worse position than we were now.
If only he would leave the thing to me. It seemed such an obvious solution to the whole matter. Instead of which, here they were blundering round, suspected by everybody and finding out nothing.
At length I finished my dinner, and went into the lounge. I had seen Longworth go out previously, but there was no sign of him as I sat down. And as I tried to drink some of the concoction that passes in the average English hotel for coffee, the sailor went by towards the door.
“Good night, mate,” he called out.
“Where are you off to?” I asked carelessly.
“Going to see some friends out Netheravon way,” he answered with a wink. “At least – a friend.”
He went out under the pleasing delusion that he had deceived me, and I sat on. Where was Algy?
A quarter of an hour passed: a half, and at length I could stand it no longer. I would chance it and go to his room. I got up and strolled over casually to the office. There was the entry in the book right enough – “A Longworth, Room 15.” I went upstairs; the room was facing me. And after a quick glance round to see that no one was about I opened the door and went in.
The room was empty, and I stood there wondering what to do next. It seemed obvious that he must have left the hotel, and if so he was probably on his way to Stonehenge by now. And the only thing to do as far as I could see was to follow him. After all, who knew what he might be up against, and even if Drummond was there a third person would do no harm.
I decided that I would walk. The night was fine though dark, and an hour, I calculated, would just about see me there. Then I would lie concealed unless my help was wanted, and find out what I could.
It was just about eleven that I reached the slight hill that passes the monument. I was walking on the grass beside the road to deaden the sound of my footsteps, and when I got level with the great stones, I sat down for a while to reconnoitre. I could see them dimly outlined in the darkness some hundred yards away, and I craned my eyes to see if I could make out any sign of movement. There was nothing: all was silent and motionless, until after a while I began to imagine things.
I recalled that vigil of the other night by the stranded motorcar, and realised that unless I did something soon my nerves would begin to go. And one thing was obvious: if I did want to find out anything I would have to go nearer.
I put a leg through the wire fence, and even as I did so I heard a sound that froze me into immobility and brought me out in a cold sweat. It was a shrill scream of fear, and the voice was the voice of a man.
It came from the direction of Stonehenge, and I crouched there listening with every sense alert. The scream was not repeated, though it seemed to me that I heard a hoarse worrying noise for a time. Then utter silence.
Suddenly I became aware of something else. I was still standing half straddled over the fence, when I felt by the faintest movement of my legs that someone else was touching the wires. And not very far away either.
I peered into the darkness: was that the dark outline of a man – or was it only a little mound? It was moving, I could swear it was moving. But it was moving away from the road and towards Stonehenge.
Then came the next unexpected development. This time there was no mistake about it: someone was scrambling through the fence without taking any precautions whatever. The wires literally twanged, and once again I crouched down waiting. Well for me that I did so: well for me that I was not still in the place where I had sat down first.
For a moment later a man, bent almost double, came swiftly past right over the spot from which I had only just moved. The fence was between us but even so, he was so close that I could have touched him, and how he missed seeing me I do not know. But I saw him, and long after he had vanished into the darkness I sat there motionless trying to puzzle out this new development. Even without the momentary glimpse I had got of his face, another sense would have proclaimed the truth. The man was a coal-black Negro.
I looked round again: the mound was no longer there, and after a little hesitation, I too started to crawl cautiously towards Stonehenge. Whether I liked it or not the reason of that dreadful scream had got to be discovered.
Foot by foot I wormed my way forward, peering ahead at every step to try and see the other man who I knew must be somewhere in front of me. Suddenly from about twenty yards away came the faint glow of a screened electric torch. I stopped instantly: without realising it I had almost reached one of the great stones. And for a space I stared at the terrible spectacle the light revealed.
Lying on his back, his legs sprawling drunkenly, was a man, and it only needed one glance to see that he was dead. There were ghastly marks round his throat, and his head lolled sideways. The poor brute had been throttled by a man of immense strength, and it looked to me as if his neck had been broken.
It was not Algy Longworth: the dead man was a complete stranger. But who was the man who held the torch? His face was in shadow: I could not see the outline of his body. Was it the sailor? Or was it the man with the damaged hand? I craned forward, and as I did so the torch was extinguished. I had a blurred impression of movement, and then silence. The man, whoever he was, had gone. I was alone with the dead body. And even as I realised it, and began to wonder what I should do next, I heard the faint thrumming of a motorcar from the road. Then came the slight squeak of a brake, and the sound of a door being opened. I looked round. Whoever it was was running without lights.
Very cautiously I backed away from the murdered man. An unlighted car stopping where this one had, seemed too suspicious for my liking. And having gone what I thought was a safe distance I lay down and waited: waited until the next thing happened, a thing which almost made me throw caution to the winds.
“To the right,” came the voice of a man, speaking low.
“You have your torch?” came the answer, and the man grunted assent.
And the second speaker was a woman. I could see them dimly outlined against the darkness not five yards away. But it wasn’t that that filled me with a wild excitement: it was the smell of a scent like jasmine – and yet not quite jasmine. It was the woman herself – Irma – our arch-enemy.
They moved away, and I wormed after them.
“Here he is,” said the man’s voice. “I’ll switch on the torch for a second.”
Once more came the faint glow, and then a sharp exclamation from her.
“This isn’t one of them. I’ve
never seen this man before in my life.”
The torch was extinguished.
“Darling – are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she said fiercely. “I know the whole brood by sight. That is no more Longworth than you are.”
“Then what on earth was he doing here?” muttered the man.
“How should I know?” she answered. “That fool Pedro has killed the wrong man.”
“Unless this man is a new member of their gang,” said her companion.
She almost spat at him.
“I’m not concerned with new members. I want the old lot.”
“My beloved,” came his voice, vibrant with love and passion, “can’t you chuck it? This is all such a ghastly risk. Drummond is dead already: you’ve got his wife. Isn’t that enough?”
“It is not,” she said coldly.
“Well, what are we going to do about this body?” he asked wearily. “Every moment we’re here increases our danger.”
“Are those sheds over there empty?”
“But the risk, cherie. It is bound to be discovered.”
“Not until we have finished,” she said in a peculiar voice. “Send Pedro back from the car to carry it there.”
They were moving away, back towards the road. And to my mind there returned those strange words of hers – “After, I will come to you.” And her voice as she said the word “Finished”, had been the same. What was in this strange woman’s brain? What dark, hideous plan had she conceived? Because the conviction was growing on me that she was not only a woman obsessed with an idea – she was mad.
And who was this man, her companion, who evidently loved her? Where did he come in? Did he hope for reward after her plans were fulfilled – did he hope for her? What wouldn’t I have given for the clue to the events of the night. Who was the dead man? Who was the man who had first examined him and then disappeared into the darkness?