by Sapper
And the more I thought of it the more it did, though, as Hugh said, there were still a lot of unaccountable things. Where, for instance, did the Vandalis come in? Were they also entitled to a share in the stolen property? And, if so, why had Granger not recognised them? And then last, but certainly not least, whose was that mysterious black figure that had flitted silently through the wood, and which inspired Granger with such ghastly terror? Was it the man from Spragge’s Farm, or was it yet a further complication?
A sudden exclamation from Hugh interrupted my thoughts. He was standing with his eye glued to the telescope, and the instrument was focussed on Spragge’s Farm.
“Activity,” he remarked, “on one of the fronts. There is a car standing outside the farm – a thing that looks like a tradesman’s van. They are all three of them there, the two men and the woman, and they are putting something into it. By Jove!” he went on excitedly after a moment, “I believe it is. It is just about the shape. They are putting the rope ladder on board, you fellows. Now the woman has gone into the house, and one of the men has clambered into the back of the car. They’re off.”
And now it was easy to see the car coming along the track away from Rye, and after a while we lost sight of it.
“I wonder what that signifies,” said Freckles.
“It signifies that the ladder is finished,” said Hugh gravely. “And it also signifies, if I mistake not, that the game is shortly going to begin in earnest. That car can get to Temple Tower from the opposite direction. Come on: we’ve got to take the road once more.”
“But he surely won’t try and climb the wall by daylight?” I cried.
“No: but it is more than possible that he is going to hide the ladder nearer the scene of action by daylight,” said Hugh. “And if he hides it anywhere he is going to hide it in that wood. There is no particular hurry because it is going to take that car at least half an hour to get there going by that route. But I think we’ll just stroll along and see what happens.”
And so once again did we find ourselves lying up in our hiding-place opposite the gate of Temple Tower, only this time Hugh was with us. Moreover I noticed that he, every now and then, threw a glance over his shoulder into the gloom of the wood behind, as if he expected to see that mysterious black figure. But on this occasion there was no sign of it: the wood was silent and deserted. And after a time I even began to wonder if the whole thing had not been a trick of the light, and whether we hadn’t imagined it all.
Ten minutes passed, quarter of an hour, and then we heard the sound of a car in the distance. Very cautiously we peered out, and Hugh gave a little grunt of satisfaction.
“It is the one I saw,” he muttered, and we waited breathlessly to see what would happen. Forty yards away from us it pulled up, and Spragge, who was driving, said something to the passenger hidden behind. And the next moment the ladder maker emerged.
I don’t know about the others, but to me he seemed even more repulsive in the daylight than he had the night before. He peered up and down the road; then, seeing there was no one in sight, he hauled his ladder out of the body of the car. The rope part was wrapped round the central bolster, and its general appearance was that of a gigantic sausage. Then, putting it under his arm, he dived into the undergrowth.
We could hear him crashing about, and then, after a short silence, he emerged, and again went to the back of the car. This time he pulled out a wooden pole about the length of a hay-rake. At one end he had constructed a sort of cradle, and its object was evidently to enable him to hoist the ladder into position on the wall. He went into the wood once more: then, reappearing a second time, he vanished into the back of the car, which drove rapidly past us towards Rye. His preparations were finished: he was ready for the night’s work.
We waited till the car had disappeared, and then stepped out on to the road.
“There would be no harm,” remarked Hugh, “in investigating our friend’s handiwork. And there is one rather useful point. If he makes as much noise moving about at night as he did then, he won’t be hard to follow.”
We found the ladder and the wooden cradle without difficulty. They had been roughly pushed under some black-berry bushes, with but little attempt at concealment. Relying on the fact that there was no one about, all he had done was to put them sufficiently far from the road to escape the eye of a stray passer-by.
“A sailor, I should think,” remarked Hugh thoughtfully, as he examined the ladder. “That canvas and tarred twine seem to smack of the sea.”
“Do we leave them there?” asked Freckles.
“We do, my lad,” laughed Hugh. “Because unless I am very much mistaken tonight’s entertainment is going to help us considerably to elucidate things. It is all right, young fellow,” he went on reassuringly. “Miss Verney is not going to come to any harm – that I promise you. Let’s stroll back and see if John has returned to the fold.”
And even as he spoke he swung round with that characteristic movement I knew so well. He was peering into the undergrowth with every muscle braced, and every nerve alert. But nothing moved: the silence was still absolute. And after a while he relaxed and stepped out of the wood into the road.
“What did you see?” said Freckles eagerly.
“Nothing,” he answered curtly. “I thought I did for a moment, but it was my imagination. Come on: let’s get back.”
He said no more until we were in the house, and then he waited till Freckles had left us alone,
“Peter,” he said gravely, “the plot thickens.”
“You did see something in the wood, then?” I remarked.
“I saw your mysterious black friend,” he answered quietly. “He is very good at concealing himself, but I happen to know a trick or two concerning that game myself. He was about twenty yards away from us.”
“But then why didn’t we go for him?” I cried bewildered.
“There is one little point that I have learned in the course of my life, Peter,” he answered, “that rather influenced the situation. A man without a gun is at a considerable disadvantage when opposed to a man with one. We were in the former category: he was in the latter. Had we moved, we were for it: he’d got us covered.”
“But do you really think he would have dared to have shot the three of us close to a main road?” I objected.
“I don’t suppose he wished to for a moment,” he agreed. “At the same time, had we gone for him then and there he might have been forced to. And I wasn’t for taking the chance. Peter,” he went on in a lower voice, “there is a damned sight more in this affair than is at present sticking out on the surface. We are up against something pretty big, and we have got to move warily. But there is one thing I can promise the gentleman in the wood: two people can play at his game. My hand may have lost its cunning to a certain extent, but I think I can still guarantee to stalk the stalker. And next time he will not be the only one with a gun. Don’t say anything to the youngster.”
I did not, though I couldn’t prevent myself from thinking over this new development. That Hugh was perhaps mistaken never entered my head: he simply was one of those men who did not make mistakes on matters of that sort. He had the eyesight of a lynx, and if he had seen an automatic, then there was an automatic. And as he said, it put matters on a different footing. If the owner of the gun was prepared, if forced to it, to kill three men close to a main road, the affair was bigger than we had at first thought. But who was he: what was he: where did he come in? Was he acting in collusion with the ladder maker Marillard? Or was he another quite separate cog in the machine? One thing was certain, whatever he might be: he was a very dangerous addition to the other side. And a further thing, too, was certain. The possibility that it might be Marillard himself who was masquerading in some disguise was disposed of: that at any rate we now knew.
John James had appeared on the scene in time for dinne
r, eager to hear if any further doings had taken place. And having been posted up to date there was nothing further to do but to wait for darkness before once again treading the familiar road to Temple Tower. Hugh was unusually silent as we sat outside finishing our brandy, and I guessed that he was trying to piece together the jigsaw in his mind. And it came as a feeling of relief when, at a quarter to ten, he got up and said it was time to start.
“Come into my study for a moment, Peter,” he said to me. “Look here, old boy,” he remarked when he had shut the door, “here is one for you. I daren’t trust either of the other two with a gun, but you are used to them.”
I slipped a vicious-looking little Colt into my pocket, and I could see the outline of another in his.
“Needless to say, don’t use it unless it is absolutely essential,” he warned. “But also, needless to say, don’t forget that our friend of the wood carries one himself.”
We rejoined the others, and Hugh looked at them critically. Freckles was obviously on edge with excitement, and Hugh smote him on the back.
“Easy does it, young fellow,” he laughed. “And don’t forget – not an unnecessary word, not an unnecessary sound. And if I tell you to do something, jump to it. Now we’ll go in two pairs. I’ll go first with Scott, and we will go beyond the spot where we know the ladder is hidden. Peter, you follow with John, and go to ground where we were this afternoon. Give us two or three minutes’ start.’’
It was practically dark when we reached our hiding-place. We had passed no one on the road, nor had we seen any sign of the other two who were some three or four hundred yards ahead of us.
“How long are we likely to have to stop here?” whispered John James to me.
“Ask me another,” I answered. “Presumably until our friend from Spragge’s Farm considers it safe to start work.’’
Half an hour passed, an hour, and then quite suddenly from inside the grounds there came the most terrible sound. It rose and fell in a deep-throated snarling roar, savage beyond description. For perhaps a quarter of a minute it continued: then it ceased as abruptly as it had commenced.
“Good God! what was that?” muttered John James in a shaking voice.
“The Pekinese,” I answered, none too steadily myself. “I’ve heard the brute once before.”
And at that moment I heard Hugh’s voice, low and urgent.
“Peter, where are you?” He loomed out of the darkness. “We have been stung,” he said. “The ladder has gone. We have been sitting here all this time like damned fools, and the enemy is inside.”
We scrambled to our feet, as Scott joined him.
“When I heard that hound,” he went on, “I began to wonder. So I had a look. It is not there. Our friend is inside the wall. Moreover,” he continued grimly, “the dog seems to be aware of the fact.’’
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Go round the wall,” he answered, “keeping your eyes skinned for the ladder. We ought just to be able to see that bolster thing against the sky. If we can’t we are done, because the ladder itself will be inside. I’ll lead: Peter, you bring up the rear.”
We started off in single file, keeping to the road. As Hugh had said, it was possible to see the top of the wall outlined against the sky, and there had been no sign of the canvas sack when we reached the corner. There we struck away from the road at right angles, still following the wall. And as luck would have it we had come the right way. Not fifty yards from where we had turned we saw it on top of the wall.
“Now,” said Hugh, “which of you two is the lightest? Scott, I should think. Up you go, young fellow, on my shoulders: get astride that bolster and pass the ladder over to this side.”
It proved easier than one would have thought, and ten seconds later Freckles was sitting astride the wall and Hugh was climbing up the ladder. Then he threw it over to the other side and disappeared down it, leaving Freckles to pass it back for us. John James went next and I followed, and three minutes from the time we had found it we were all inside.
There was plenty of cover to conceal our movements as we crept cautiously forward. The whole place was unkempt and badly looked after. Thick undergrowth grew between the trees, and there was no semblance of even the crudest track or footpath. At last we came to an opening. Ahead of us, some fifty yards away, lay the house, and a light was burning in one of the ground-floor windows. Then suddenly another light went on, this time on the second floor, and outlined against it was the figure of a girl. She was peering out, and Freckles gave a quick exclamation.
“Shut up,” growled Hugh. “Not a sound.”
It was Miss Verney, and after a time she put out the light again. Once more the house was in darkness save for the ground-floor room.
“I want to see into that room,” whispered Hugh. “Skirt round to the left, keeping under cover.”
We followed him, dodging from tree to tree, until he halted before another open space. In front of us was what looked like an old ruined wall, as far as one could see in the darkness. It was broken down and crumbling, and in some places was on a level with the ground.
“The old chapel,” he muttered, and John James grunted assent.
And we were just on the point of going on when there came the sound of voices from the house. It was too far off to hear what was said, but they were loud and angry. Both were men’s, and it was obvious that a quarrel was going on. And then, just for an instant, I saw the two of them silhouetted against the light, and recognised Granger and the servant Gaspard. Granger was shaking his fists in the air, and Gaspard was standing sullenly with his hands in his pockets. Then they disappeared, and the light went out.
“Damn,” muttered Hugh. “However, let’s go on and have a look at the chapel. Careful where you put your feet: it is going to be awkward if someone sprains his ankle.”
We crept on till we came to the crumbling stonework. It was grass-grown and afforded treacherous walking, rendered all the harder by the darkness. Twice did I dislodge a stone with my foot, and I was just beginning to wonder what good Hugh hoped to do when I heard him give a gasp of surprise. I peered ahead: he was bending over something on the ground.
“Peter,” he muttered, “look at this.”
“This” was the dog – stone dead. It was an enormous brute, and its body was arched, and its great fangs gleamed white in a last death snarl. And in the air there hung the smell of burnt almonds.
“Prussic acid,” he said. “I wondered what had silenced it so suddenly.”
And then he straightened up, and his hand went to his revolver pocket.
“The dog is dead,” he muttered grimly, “but the man who did it – isn’t. Keep your eyes skinned.”
Instinctively, we closed up; there was something terrifying about that gloomy, silent house and the rank undergrowth, even without the additional knowledge that we were not the only watchers. The whole place smelt of decay, and I was on the point of suggesting to Hugh that we should go, when there came from the house the sound of bolts being drawn. Someone was coming out.
The door opened, and in the dim light from the hall we saw for a moment the outlines of Granger and the servant. Then it clanged to again, and we heard the bolt shoot home.
“Nero; where are you, you brute?”
Gaspard’s voice came through the darkness: evidently he had been shut out of the house to find out what had happened to the dog. He went plunging into the undergrowth, calling and whistling, whilst we still stood there undecided what to do.
“Nero. Nero.”
His voice was coming closer, and Hugh signed to us to move back under cover. And then quite suddenly there came a shrill scream of terror, followed by a horrible choking noise. The calls for Nero ceased abruptly: and after a moment or two the choking noise ceased too. The same thought was in all our minds: what was happening in t
he darkness close by? What had caused that sudden scream of mortal fear?
Like a shadow Hugh glided away in the direction of the sound, and we followed. Every now and then he paused and peered ahead, but in the gloom of the undergrowth it was impossible to see anything. And it so happened that it was my lot to make the discovery. I was the last of the four, and quite by chance I was staring at a bush to my left. And it seemed to me that something moved.
I went nearer, and only by the greatest self-control did I check a cry myself. A great black object was lying on the ground, and as I approached it suddenly rose. It seemed to unwrap itself, and I felt instinctively that it was staring at me. Then, with a sort of snarling hiss, it vanished, and I saw what it had left behind.
“Hugh,” I said shakily, and in a second he was with me.
“Good God!” he muttered, and pulled out a tiny electric torch. Gaspard was lying there, his face red and swollen, and a glance showed that he was dead. He had been throttled: the marks on his throat were plain to see.
“It was the black figure,” I said. “It was lying on top of him, and when it heard me, it got up and vanished.”
“It strikes me we are dealing with a homicidal maniac,” he remarked, and his voice was hard. “And with that brand one shoots on sight. Let’s see if we can’t get a sight. Back to the ladder, and move.”
He led the way, and we followed as quickly as we could. But to keep up with Hugh in the dark was an impossibility, and he was soon far ahead of us. At last the wall loomed up in front, and it was as we reached it that the sharp crack of a revolver brought us all up standing. It came from the direction of the road, and a sick feeling of fear got hold of me. Which of them had fired?
“Hugh,’’ I called out, regardless of who might hear. “Where are you?”