by Sapper
She stumbled over blindly: there was something immeasurably more terrifying in that soft hissing voice even than there had been in the animal fury of Granger.
“Now, Crapeau, to business. What have you sold in these past years? Give an account of your stewardship.”
“Only enough to live on, and to buy this house,” pleaded Granger. “By the blood of the Virgin, I speak the truth. The rest is all here: take it.”
“I shall take exactly what I want,” said le Bossu. “I trust for your sake that you have not sold the emeralds.”
“They are here,” cried Granger, fumbling with unsteady hands at the opening by the fireplace. “All of them.”
Fascinated in spite of herself the girl watched le Bossu as he tossed them from hand to hand in lines of living green fire.
“The beauties,” he whispered. “The beauties. Now, Crapeau – the rest. Put them on your table, and I will choose.”
And then for the next hour the scene must surely have been as amazing as any ever thought of in the wildest fairy story. From different hiding-places all over the room came every conceivable form of treasure. Pearls, rubies, diamonds, exquisite miniatures, littered the desk, until the mind reeled at the value of what lay there. And all the time le Bossu sat motionless in his chair. Once only did he make a movement, and that was to pick up an exquisitely chased gold cup and turn it over in his hands.
“Divine work,” he said thoughtfully. “A pity that it must remain.”
Another hour passed in a sort of semi-stupor for her, while le Bossu made his choice. Each stone was carefully examined, and either returned to the table or placed carefully in one of the velvet bags he had taken from his pocket. No word was spoken, and once when Granger ventured some cringing remark he was bidden curtly to be silent. And for the second time that night the sense of unreality came over her. The great deformed figure at the desk, silent and absorbed: the fawning, obsequious Granger at his side, were just parts of some ghastly nightmare.
At length le Bossu rose: he had finished, and for a space he stood staring at Granger. His back was towards the girl, but in his eyes there must have been something which told the other the truth. For with a sudden frenzied cry he hurled himself on his knees and grovelled for mercy.
“Spare me,” he screamed again and again. “I have given you all.”
“Crapeau,” came a terrible voice, “what was the penalty for disobeying me in the past?”
“Death,” moaned the other.
“Is there any reason, Crapeau,” went on the voice, “why you should escape that penalty?”
And then le Bossu paused and swung round. For the girl had seized him by the arm, and was shouting at him hysterically.
“You’re not going to murder him,” she cried. “It’s monstrous: it’s…’’
The words died away on her lips, and she gave a little moaning sob of terror, and cowered back. For his eyes seemed to be glowing with some strange light, a greenish-yellow light, which bored into her brain and numbed her. Then like a flash he turned again. There came a choking squeal: then silence save for a faint hissing noise. Le Bossu was strangling le Crapeau before her eyes.
He seemed to her like some monstrous spider, who had at last got the fly in its clutches. Her brain refused to act: she could only lean against the wall moaning pitifully. And suddenly it was all over. With a thud Granger fell on the floor: the strangler’s work was done. For a moment she stared at the victim’s face. Then, with a little sob of utter horror, she fainted.
When she came to herself the room was empty. And it was only the heap of rejected stuff which still lay on the table that told her it had been grim reality and not some ghastly dream. Le Bossu had been there, he had murdered Granger and had gone. But had he? For the moment he was not in the room, but at any instant he might return and complete his work by killing her.
Now was her chance to open the switch. Shakily she got to her feet, and it was when she was halfway across the room that the crazy maniacal laughter, which we had heard in the passage, pealed through the house. For a second or two she paused, clutching the table, wondering whether the murderous fiend was even now playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse. Then, as the laughter ceased, she took a little run forward and pulled out the switch. And so did she come stumbling down the stairs to us – a girl who had reached the breaking point.
We lifted her on to the sofa, and then Hugh spoke. His voice was perfectly normal, and in all probability the others noticed nothing. But I knew at once that he was in a condition of cold, overmastering rage. It was rare with him, very rare: only twice before, I think, had I seen him in a similar condition. And it were safer for a man to sit on an open barrel of gunpowder with a lighted match in his hand, than to come to grips with Hugh Drummond in such a mood.
“Scott,” he said quietly, “you and John will remain with Miss Verney. When she has recovered sufficiently take her back to my house. Come, Peter.”
Without another word he strode to the front door and I followed. It was open: le Bossu had left that way. And the instant he was outside he dodged into the bushes: rage or no rage his judgement was not blinded. In absolute silence he made his way through the undergrowth, and at such a speed that I, used though I was to his uncanny power of movement at night, was hard put to it to keep up with him. Only once did he pause, and that was when there came from the distance the sudden roar of a motor engine. Then we reached the wall, and swarmed over.
“Leave those things,” he said shortly. “There will be a good deal to tell the police before the night is through, and our method of entry will be one of them.”
The Bentley was where we had left her, and started at once. No tampering this time, and a few minutes later we spun past Hugh’s house.
“Where are we bound for?” I asked.
“The Marsh,” he answered. “And the proof that four can be as good as six. But, my God! Peter, we’ve cut it fine this time.”
Through Rye, and along the straight stretch to the fork, where he turned right-handed along the sea road. We were going to the same place as the first night when we had visited Spragge’s Farm. And it was not until he was getting out of the car that he spoke again.
“If by any chance he does me in, Peter,” he said gravely, “shoot him as you would shoot a mad dog.”
So it was here that the final battle was to come. Somewhere in the sand dunes Drummond and le Bossu Masqué were going to meet. How Hugh knew I didn’t ask: he was in no mood for idle chatter. That he did know was enough for me: that he had known all along was obvious now. And even at that moment, keyed up though I was, I couldn’t help realising the torment of mind he must have gone through when, as a prisoner in the passage, he thought his plan was going to fail through no fault of his own.
Side by side we crept over the sandy hummocks. He was taking a course almost parallel with the sea, but a little inshore. And after we had gone about four hundred yards, he put out his hand as a warning. Evidently we were near the spot. In front of us lay a dune higher than the average, and up this he wormed his way on his stomach. I followed him, and then, inch by inch, I raised my head to see what was on the other side. And in that instant I understood.
Below us was the motorboat we had found on our visit to Spragge’s Farm. It had been moved from its original position, and now it lay, its bows pointing to the open sea, in a little creek. We had cut in on le Bossu’s line of retreat.
“We may have to wait some time,” whispered Hugh in my ear. “But that is better than being too late.”
And then began an eerie vigil. The ceaseless roar of the sea: the harsh call of some night bird above our heads, were the only sounds. And after a while there came that faint lessening of the darkness over Dungeness that heralded the approach of dawn. I glanced at my watch, it marked a quarter to three.
Suddenly Hugh gripped
my arm.
“He is coming,” he whispered.
I had heard nothing myself, but of old I knew that Drummond at night was not as other men. And then, I, too, heard the noise of a stone being dislodged. It came from inland, and I peered in the direction of the sound.
“There he is,” breathed Hugh. “We will play with him a little, Peter.”
And now I could see his outline plainly. He was coming along the side of the dyke towards the motorboat. Moreover, he did not seem to be taking any precautions about moving silently: evidently he had no suspicions whatever that we were there before him. He paused by the side of the boat, and I half expected Hugh to hurl himself down the dune on to him. But he made no movement, though in the very faint light I thought I detected a grim smile on his face.
Below us, quite unconscious of his danger, le Bossu went on with his preparations. He was stowing some things away in the stern of the boat, and every now and then he lifted his head and listened. The possibility of pursuit was clearly in his mind, and once he paused for nearly a minute. One could just see his movements against the jet-black mirror of water: one was near enough to hear the faint hissing whistle with which he worked, like a man grooming a horse.
At length he straightened up and stepped into the boat: he was going to take off the tarpaulin that covered the engine. I glanced at Hugh: it struck me that what he had said on the drive down was true now – he was cutting it fine. Once let le Bossu start the engine, there was every chance in the darkness of his being able to make the sea. At any rate, the only method of stopping him would be to fire more or less blindly at the boat. But still Hugh made no movement: like a piece of carved granite he lay there staring at the boat below.
Le Bossu folded the tarpaulin, and threw it into the bows. Then he got on to the bank once more, and the rattle of a chain told us he had cast off the painter. He was ready to go. For a moment or two he stood by the side of the boat, and clear above the noise of the waves we heard him laughing. Low and triumphant, and yet with the same ring of madness in it as that wild, frenzied peal he had given at Temple Tower. Then he got back into the boat, and again I glanced at Hugh. Surely he wasn’t going to wait any longer.
Crank went the starting handle: no result. Again he tried: nothing. His laughter had ceased; and he tried once more. The engine refused to fire. And now I felt Hugh shaking silently beside me and a dim premonition of what had happened began to dawn on me – a premonition which was confirmed a moment or two later. Le Bossu had switched on his torch to examine the motor. All the four sparking plugs had been removed. The meaning of Hugh’s cryptic utterance about four being the equivalent of six was clear.
Out went the light, and from below us came a flood of the most frightful blasphemy. His voice was hardly above a whisper, but every word carried to our ears. Then abruptly it ceased: le Bossu was thinking. That he still had no inkling of our presence was obvious: he still believed himself to be alone. But alone with a useless motorboat instead of alone and well out to sea. What was he to do? He must have realised that the object of the boat was known to us; and that being the case, that we should come to it the instant we got out of the secret passage. And he must have cursed himself for not having taken more precautions to prevent us doing so. As long as he had thought that the secret of the boat was his alone, it had not mattered when we escaped: now when he knew it wasn’t, everything was altered.
One thing was clear: the idea of escaping in the boat must be abandoned, at any rate, for the present. Moreover, the sooner he was away from the boat, the better for him. Feverishly he began to unpack the things he had so carefully stowed away; every second was of importance. At any moment we might be on him: from triumph he had plunged to failure. And it was then I realised that Hugh was no longer beside me: like a shadow he had vanished into the darkness. The time for play was over: the final settlement was due. I hitched myself forward a few inches, and with my revolver ready I waited. How was it going to happen?
Suddenly from about ten yards away came Hugh’s clear laugh, and with a hiss like an angry snake le Bossu straightened up. A few seconds later came the laugh again, but from quite a different spot, and le Bossu spun round. Then again and again came that laugh, each time from a fresh place. Dimly I could see le Bossu, crouching on the bank, his head jerking round quickly at each sound: playtime evidently was not yet over. The murderous devil was to have a taste of his own medicine before the end.
“Good evening, Bossu,” came Hugh’s drawling voice. “Your sparking plugs are in my pocket. It was kind of you to give me the idea. Won’t you come and get them?”
A snarl was the only answer.
“Five people, Bossu, have you murdered on this little trip. To say nothing of an attempt to brain me with a chimney-pot. I dislike people who try to brain me with chimney-pots, Bossu. So what are we going to do about it?”
And once again there came a snarl that was half animal in ferocity.
“I can see you quite clearly, Bossu,” mocked Hugh. “And you can’t see me. Unfortunate, isn’t it? Shall I put five perfectly good bullets into your carcase, one for each person you have murdered, or would you prefer to die another way?”
There came a sudden crack from below me, and a shot went droning harmlessly over the Marsh.
“Quite the wrong direction, my friend,” said Hugh easily. “Don’t, I beg of you, add a harmless cow to your bag. And you haven’t answered my question. Which way would you prefer to die, Bossu? Because you are going to – very shortly. You won’t say? Then I have a suggestion to make. You shall die as you have lived – by strangling. Does that appeal to your sense of humour?”
Silence from below, and once again Hugh laughed.
“Putting on the robes of office, are you, Bossu? The false hump: the mask: the long black hood. I have been wondering off and on why you bothered with quite such an elaborate makeup. The mask I can understand: even the hump. But it was the hood that defeated me. Am I right in supposing that a fold of loose stuff like that round your neck, gives you a considerable advantage if your adversary tries to meet you at your own game and endeavours to strangle you? I can assure you that you needn’t be afraid of giving away any of your parlour secrets: you will never need them again. You won’t speak? Not very chatty tonight, are you, Bossu?”
It was growing lighter now, and I could plainly see the great black figure below me. He was staring around like a wild beast at bay, trying to locate Drummond, and in his right hand was an ugly-looking revolver. And knowing the nature of the brute I slipped my own gun a little further forward: it was not a moment for taking chances.
“It was clever of you to think of the aeroplane today,” went on his invisible tormentor. “Indeed I don’t mind admitting it was a stroke of genius. Very nearly – so very nearly – it enabled you to pull it off. In fact, Bossu, I quite agree with all that that dear fellow Victor Matthews said about you. But it doesn’t alter my opinion that you are a nasty bit of work: so nasty, to be exact, that I grow weary of you. I would fain seek ale in my humble cottage. Throw your gun into the water, Bossu.”
The drawling voice had ceased: the order came curt and stern. But the man below still glared savagely round him. Came a crack, and a stab of flame. Another crack from le Bossu, who had fired at the flash, and Hugh’s mocking laugh.
“Through your hump that time, Bossu, and more peril to the cows from you. I am a very much better shot than you, so if you take my advice you won’t go on playing at that game. I give you exactly five seconds to throw your gun into the water. The next time I fire it will be through your revolver hand.”
For a moment or two le Bossu seemed to hesitate: then without a word he flung his revolver into the creek.
“Good!” said Hugh curtly. “Now, Bossu, put your hands above your head.”
Again came a momentary hesitation, then his arms, grotesquely draped in the black hood, went ab
ove his head. And simultaneously Hugh emerged from behind a sand dune twenty yards away. His gun was in his hand, and he walked slowly along the edge of the water till he reached le Bossu. And then for a space there was silence.
I watched fascinated: had ever day dawned on a more incredible scene? This monstrous masked devil – this murderer many times over, facing a man in whose face there was no glint of pity.
“Strictly speaking, Bossu, I suppose I should hand you over to the police,” said Drummond quietly. “But we are not speaking strictly at the moment. And so I propose to give myself the extreme pleasure of anticipating the hangman. Do not imagine, Bossu, that I shall suffer in any way. I have here a witness in the shape of Mr Darrell who will swear that you made a dastardly assault upon me, should any questions arise.”
He paused: then he flung his revolver up to me.
“Right, strangler, I am ready. Do you begin, or shall I?”
And now, the necessity for concealment gone, I stood up. I was almost shaking with excitement, but neither man paid any attention to me. Le Bossu had dropped his arms, and was crouching a little. His body swayed slightly from side to side: his hands, with the fingers curved like steel hooks, were in front of him, stretched out towards Hugh. And suddenly, like a flash, he sprang.
Came a dull heavy thud, and a short laugh from Drummond, as le Bossu crashed on his back. Hugh’s fist, with fourteen stone behind it, had caught him on the point of the jaw.
“Fight on, strangler,” said Hugh quietly. “Fight on. There is no time limit to this round.”
And then to my amazement he stepped back a pace. He was staring at le Bossu fixedly with an expression on his face I couldn’t fathom.
“By God! Peter,” he cried, “his eyes have gone green. The brute is not human.”
But human or the reverse, the next instant he was fighting for his life. Snarling and panting, infuriated by the blow, le Bossu, for the next minute, gave Hugh all he wanted. Once he got his hands to Drummond’s throat, only to have them torn away. He tried to wrap himself round Drummond: he fought like a maddened beast. And at one moment I, who knew his strength, began to feel uneasy.