For a moment Guest could hardly believe it. Gingerly he felt himself all over, then dragged himself towards van Draper.
‘Van…are you all right?’ he cried in a hoarse voice that he hardly recognised as his own.
‘Van! Van!’ he called desperately, and shook the inert form. Suddenly realising that van Draper was dead, Guest came very near to panic. Feverishly he searched in a cubbyhole under the windscreen and found a small flask of brandy. After taking a long pull he felt much better.
Then he thought of the other car. What if the man had escaped and was waiting for him?
But there was no sign of life.
Guest went up to the other car and saw that the driver had been flung against the side window. He had received a severe blow on the head, which was badly cut. The car, however, seemed to be far less damaged than his own. Guest looked desperately in all directions. Someone might come along at any minute.
His brain began to work swiftly. By a tremendous shove he managed to restore the Morris to an even keel. Then he started the engine. After a slight pause he lifted out the inert body and laid it on the roadside.
Just as he was about to climb back into the car Guest paused, then went over to the body of van Draper. Without stopping to discriminate, he thrust all the letters and papers he found into his own pockets.
He carefully backed the police car onto the road again and headed for the chalet.
2
‘Yes,’ said Rex Bryant evenly, ‘Z.4…’
He looked Mrs Moffat straight in the eyes and favoured her with a smile that had gained him many an interview from unwilling politicians.
For once Mrs Moffat betrayed her excitement.
‘We’ve been waiting for ye! My God, how we’ve waited! I was beginning to think ye’d leave it too late,’ she said.
‘Can’t we go into the back parlour?’ said Rex. ‘It’s rather difficult talking here.’
‘Why, yes, of course!’ She nodded eagerly, and was about to lead the way. Then she paused and went to the shop door, which she bolted carefully top and bottom. ‘Mind the first step,’ she adjured, ‘it’s a bit tricky in the dark…’
Rex followed her into the back room.
She turned and faced him.
‘We followed out your instructions about Iris,’ she rapidly informed him.
‘About Iris?’ repeated Rex, slightly bewildered.
‘Why, of course – about Iris and the car.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Rex, recovering his composure, ‘about Iris and the car…now let’s see—’
‘But surely you remember,’ said Mrs Moffat, somewhat puzzled.
There was hardly a noticeable pause before Rex said: ‘Yes, yes, of course, I was thinking of something else.’ As an afterthought, he added: ‘How is Iris?’
‘We haven’t heard,’ said Mrs Moffat quietly. ‘Not yet.’
‘Oh,’ said Rex blankly. ‘I see. And Hardwick?’
Mrs Moffat took a deep breath.
‘The screen is finished,’ she told him.
‘Good,’ said Rex.
‘And how are things at your end?’ Mrs Moffat demanded rather nervously. ‘Are the arrangements complete?’
‘Yes,’ said Rex, taking out a cigarette. ‘Quite complete. Did you have much trouble with Hardwick?’
‘Not at first. He was too bitter about things. Now he seems rather difficult.’
‘Difficult?’
‘Yes. At times he gets almost violent. The poor devil can’t understand why we moved him to the chalet.’
‘No,’ said Rex, ‘I suppose he can’t.’ He blew out a cloud of smoke, then asked as casually as possible: ‘How far do you reckon the chalet is from here?’
‘How far?’ echoed Mrs Moffat, surprised. ‘But ye know where the chalet is as well as I do!’
‘Of course,’ replied Rex easily, ‘but I’ve never been there.’
‘Never been there! But ye had the place made ready for us!’ cried Mrs Moffat. ‘It was ye who—’
She broke off in obvious alarm. Her placid features had lost their immobile expression. Her mouth was twitching with obvious excitement.
‘My God! You’re not Z.4!’ she gasped.
Rex threw his half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs Moffat, but you are quite right. I am not Z.4,’ he said calmly.
She made a sudden movement in the direction of the door. ‘Stand away from that door!’ he ordered sharply. His right hand was in his coat pocket. ‘If I were you, Mrs Moffat, I should sit down,’ he advised. ‘I’d hate to spoil this perfectly good suit by shooting through the coat pocket.’
Mrs Moffat relapsed onto a nearby chair.
‘Who are you?’ she mouthed. ‘Who the devil—’
‘All in good time, Mrs Moffat, all in good time,’ he cut in curtly.
Then his eye caught sight of a telephone standing on a side table.
‘Is that switched through?’ he asked.
She nodded without speaking.
Rex went over and picked up the receiver.
‘Hello…Inverdale 83, please…yes, 83…’
He placed a hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Mrs Moffat again. ‘Now, Mrs Moffat, perhaps you’ll have the goodness to tell me more about the chalet.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll tell ye nothing.’
‘My dear Mrs—’ Rex was beginning, when he broke off.
‘Hello…Inverdale 83? Is that the “Royal Gate”?… Will you get Mr Temple at once?…Yes, Mr Paul Temple…All right, I’ll hold the line.’
He turned to Mrs Moffat once more.
‘There’s nothing like patience, is there, Mrs Moffat?’ he demanded cheerfully. ‘Nothing like patience…’
3
The lounge of the ‘Royal Gate’ Hotel opened directly from the entrance hall, and was really little more than a glorified sitting room. There were the usual reproductions of Highland pictures. In fact, it was very like the lounge of dozens of private hotels in Kensington and Bloomsbury.
However, the armchairs were comfortable, and Paul Temple and Steve often sat there after meals. They were gossiping idly with Sir Graham when the latter suddenly yawned and stretched himself.
‘I’m expecting a telephone call from Wright,’ he told them. ‘Otherwise I’d go to my room and snatch forty winks.’ The Chief Commissioner looked tired, for he had been getting rather less than six hours’ sleep in each twenty-four of late.
‘Who’s Wright, Sir Graham?’ Steve wanted to know.
‘The fellow I’ve got watching Mrs Moffat’s place,’ he told her.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Temple, suddenly alert, ‘I’d almost forgotten about him.’
Steve, who was facing the door, looked up suddenly to see rather a strange figure framed in the doorway. It was Mrs Weston, wearing outdoor clothes, which gave her an unfamiliar appearance. Her coat was sensible, and if her hat was not in the current fashion, it seemed to suit her. Steve noticed that she wore black stockings and neat shoes, which were nevertheless well adapted for walking Highland roads.
‘Going out, Mrs Weston?’ asked Steve, finding it difficult to conceal the surprise in her voice. Somehow, one never imagined Mrs Weston going far beyond the ‘Royal Gate’. That was her domain, and it took her all her time to look after it.
‘Ay, just down to the village,’ Mrs Weston nodded.
‘It’ll be a nice walk,’ smiled Steve pleasantly.
‘It doesn’t look too bright to me,’ replied Mrs Weston dubiously. ‘There’s a mist coming down the mountain.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Steve, ‘it’ll keep fine all right.’
‘Well, I do hope so, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Weston diffidently. At that moment the young man who had taken Ernie Weston’s place as porter and man-of-all-work came to the door.
‘What is it, Alec?’ asked Mrs Weston.
‘Telephone,’ answered Alec laconically.
‘Didn’t you find out who i
t was for?’
He seemed bewildered by her query, and with a muttered exclamation she went to the telephone.
‘Looks like your call, Sir Graham,’ said Steve, and he rose. But Mrs Weston returned to inform them: ‘It’s for Mr Temple.’
‘Thanks,’ said Temple in a toneless voice, and went out to the tiny office across the hall.
‘Ah well, I’d better be off,’ said Mrs Weston. ‘I think mebbe I’ll take my umbrella after all, just to be on the safe side.’
They could hear her ferreting in the large iron umbrella stand outside.
‘Mrs Weston seems to have taken things rather well, doesn’t she?’ commented Sir Graham casually.
‘Yes,’ agreed Steve. ‘She does rather…’
It hadn’t occurred to her before.
‘I wonder what she really thinks about all this,’ went on Forbes. ‘After all, when two men are murdered under your very nose as it were – and one of them happens to be your husband into the bargain, then surely—’
A warning cough from Steve brought his speculations to a conclusion. He swung round to see the huge form of Doctor Steiner in the doorway.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Temple,’ smiled the Austrian. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Good afternoon,’ answered Forbes without enthusiasm. ‘Just out for a stroll?’
‘Ja,’ Steiner nodded with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Ja wenn man ein bischen dick ist muss man abend spazieren gehen…’
‘And what does that mean, Doctor?’ asked Steve, who found herself liking Steiner, in spite of the atmosphere of suspicion that surrounded him.
‘It means,’ replied the professor, ‘that when one is fat one should take plenty of exercise.’
Sir Graham grunted. He had hoped it would mean something rather different.
Steiner turned to go. ‘We shall meet later, I hope…at dinner?’
‘Of course,’ said Steve.
‘Then for the time being – auf wiedersehen.’
‘Auf wiedersehen,’ she smiled.
Forbes watched him go with a thoughtful frown.
‘I’m damned if I can make head or tail of that fellow,’ he told Steve, with some exasperation in his voice.
Steve smiled to herself.
Somehow, she could not believe that Doctor Steiner was a hardened criminal.
The Chief Commissioner looked up sharply as Temple re-entered.
‘Well?’
‘That was Bryant,’ said Temple quietly. ‘He’s at Mrs Moffat’s.’
‘Rex Bryant! What the devil is he doing there?’
‘Well, I’m rather afraid I sent him there,’ Temple confessed.
‘You sent him?’ echoed Sir Graham in mingled surprise and indignation.
Temple nodded.
‘But, darling, why?’ asked Steve.
Temple resumed his seat and leaned forward eagerly.
‘Immediately I realised that we knew the true significance of the quotation – in other words, the means by which Z.4 intended to contact the organisation – I telephoned Bryant.’
‘What was the point in that?’
‘I instructed him to visit Mrs Moffat’s, and by means of the quotation pass himself off as Z.4.’
‘Then Rex isn’t Z.4?’ said Steve at once.
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, what’s happened?’ asked Forbes.
Temple became more serious.
‘I was hoping,’ he continued, ‘that Mrs Moffat might be completely taken in by Rex, and divulge the exact whereabouts of the chalet. Unfortunately, that scheme hasn’t worked out quite as well as I anticipated.’
‘Mrs Moffat hasn’t escaped?’
‘Oh no. Rex is taking care of that all right. I lent him a revolver – he said he would be scared stiff to use it, but I expect he looks the part all right.’
‘Then there’s nothing to worry about,’ said Forbes excitedly. ‘Z.4 is still bound to contact Mrs Moffat. We’ll get Z.4, Temple, if I have to arrest the whole village!’
‘I hardly think that will be necessary, Sir Graham.’
Forbes nodded. ‘Look here, we’d better join Bryant as soon as we possibly can. For all we know, Z.4 might turn up at Mrs Moffat’s while we are hanging around here.’
‘I’ll leave that to you, Sir Graham,’ said Temple, rising. ‘I’ve got an appointment at High Moorford which is rather important.’
‘An appointment at High Moorford?’ repeated Forbes, who quite failed to see the point in this.
‘Yes,’ replied Temple. ‘With Iris Archer.’
‘You’re joking!’
Temple shook his head.
‘You don’t mean to say Iris escaped from the train?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Temple. ‘Van Draper and Guest had a car waiting for her. The car was tampered with so that the steering collapsed about twenty minutes after she’d started.’
‘Good God! What happened?’
‘Fortunately, Iris escaped with a pretty bad shaking. She’s meeting me at the Shepley Hotel, High Moorford. That trick with the car didn’t exactly please Iris, Sir Graham.’
‘You think she’ll talk?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
The Chief Commissioner was now much more cheerful, and openly delighted with the turn of events. ‘Things are looking up, Temple!’ he enthused. ‘Even if we can’t find out about the chalet from Mrs Moffat, we still have another string to our bow.’
‘We’ll find the chalet all right,’ Temple assured him. ‘You see, van Draper and Guest visited Mrs Moffat’s shop, and according to Rex, who arrived on the scene just as they were leaving, your man is tailing them. That’s why he hasn’t telephoned.’
‘So if van Draper and Guest are on their way to the chalet, Wright can’t miss it. Things certainly are looking up!’
‘Paul, it’s nearly five,’ Steve reminded him.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Temple, moving to the door. ‘We’ll meet you at Mrs Moffat’s in about an hour, Sir Graham.’
‘Why at Mrs Moffat’s?’ asked Steve.
Paul Temple smiled.
‘Because Mrs Moffat is expecting Z.4,’ he said. ‘And I’d rather like to be there when Z.4 arrives!’
4
John Hardwick sat hunched in the chair to which he had been tied and gloomily reviewed the situation. Van Draper and Guest had trussed him so rigorously that he had great difficulty in making the slightest movement.
Suddenly he gave vent to a deep, sarcastic laugh. This was certainly a rather ironical position for him to be in. Here he was with the screen finally completed, and he was tied up like a mummy in full view of his own efforts. Rather wistfully, he eyed the gleaming apparatus, the notebooks and plans scattered over his workbench, and wondered if he would ever use them again.
Guest and van Draper had seemed pretty desperate, but they had not threatened him with death. Obviously they, or this mysterious Z.4 he had heard them mention, hoped to have some future use for him. Otherwise he believed they would have ‘liquidated’ him without any further ado.
It was rather ironical to reflect that he had completed his final tests that very morning, and was now in a position to put on paper the exact specification of the Hardwick Beam working in conjunction with the screen.
With a grim smile, he congratulated himself that he had not committed quite all the final layout to paper. In this respect he had maintained his usual procedure. True, there were some calculations on scraps of paper in the waste-paper basket that might afford some clue to an expert who also had the plans on the bench.
Blueprints were strewn everywhere. On the working benches, on a table in the corner, even on the floor round his ankles. In the final frenzy of completing the beam, Hardwick had consulted one print after another, hurriedly casting them aside when they had served their purpose.
With a rueful grimace he strained against his bonds. They had omitted to tie his hands together, but the cords were very tight round his arms and body and securely fas
tened to the back of the chair. After a while he discovered that his left wrist was not fastened so tightly as the right, and eventually he managed to extricate it. Then, in his impatience to free himself completely, he struggled to extract a cigarette lighter from his waistcoat pocket. It took a little time, as the cords passed right over the pocket.
But he got the lighter at last, pressed the spring, and a tiny flame leapt into being. Just as he was applying it to the cord, a spasm of pain, as a result of his cramped position, shot through his hand and the lighter fell to the floor amongst the blueprints.
It was out of reach of his feet, which were tied firmly to the chair. The blueprints smouldered, and a tiny wisp of flame licked round the edges of a large roll. Hardwick strained frantically at the cord round his left arm, but the pain persisted, and it was agony to move.
Two pieces of tracing paper were well alight by now, and in desperation Hardwick flung himself, together with the chair, on top of them, in the hope of smothering the flames. Desperately Hardwick rolled to and fro, coughing and choking…
Giving the cord of the outboard motor turntable a final flick to set the engine whirring, Guest suddenly caught sight of a wisp of smoke on the other side of the L-shaped lake. The chalet lay right at the other extremity, effectively concealed by a small outjutting headland.
Guest was too worried about recent events to give much thought to the distant curl of smoke. When he was nearly halfway across the lake he noticed that its volume had considerably increased. Even then he had some vague idea that it might emanate from some gorse, which the shepherds were often burning in the hills.
But as Guest steered round the headland he suddenly gave vent to an exclamation, and opened the throttle to the full. The chalet, built almost entirely of wood, was blazing with a fierce crackle that he could hear a quarter of a mile away. Already the roof had caught fire, and the flames were licking round the eaves.
Guest ran the boat almost up to the tiny beach before shutting off the engine, and the prow hissed through the soft shingle. Without waiting to secure the boat, he hastened the two hundred yards to the chalet as quickly as he could. He was not in particularly good condition, and he could feel the blood pulsing through his ears as he came within a few yards of the fire.
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