A wave of heat swept over him, and its fierce intensity brought him to a halt. Even if help had been at hand, he doubted if it would have been possible to make any impression on the fire. He tried another tack, moving round to the side, hoping that the flames had perhaps a lesser hold on the rear part of the chalet. But he was disappointed, and even as he stepped onto the terrace at the back the roof fell in with the terrifying rumble of a minor landslide.
‘Poor devil!’ murmured Guest to himself. In his army days he had seen many men die, but in most cases the coup had been swift and, he imagined, almost painless. For some unaccountable reason, he found that certain incidents from those futile years of 1914-18 flashed before him as he watched the final phases of the fire.
‘Well, that’s the end of the Hardwick Screen,’ he murmured to himself, and for the first time he asked himself if the world would be any the worse for the loss. He had seen the Prez gun spell swift annihilation to thousands who, but for that invention, would be living today. There was no doubt, reflected Guest, the successful disposal by Z.4 of the Hardwick Screen would certainly have precipitated another war.
‘You’re a sentimental weakling,’ he reproved himself. ‘I expect it’s just sour grapes, if the truth’s known.’
Having eventually decided that it would be impossible to salvage anything from the fire, he turned and slowly retraced his steps to the lake. Despite the stern discipline of his army years, Guest was a rather more humane type than van Draper. As is invariably the case, his extra intelligence was accompanied by a somewhat morbid outlook on life. That Guest was gifted in certain directions there could be no doubt. His knowledge of the Prez gun was quite equal to that of the inventor. He had himself hit upon one or two extra refinements to this terrible weapon, and it was the illegal manufacture of these guns for export which had landed him in the clutches of Z.4.
The death of van Draper had upset Guest rather more than he would have admitted to most people, and although Hardwick had been an awkward devil just lately, Guest wouldn’t have wished his worst enemy a death of this description.
He came to the boat, and turned once more to look at the smouldering ruins. All their weeks and months of planning and subterfuge had literally gone up in smoke. And all they had to show for it was a hornets’ nest. The police had probably found van Draper by this time, and no doubt they would soon identify him.
After that they would be on the lookout for Z.4, who was supposed to be en route to Inverdale. Perhaps, thought Guest, he had better return to Mrs Moffat’s.
On second thoughts, however, he decided that it would be better to lie low for a day or two, somewhere within easy reach, and where he was not likely to be conspicuous. There was an hotel in High Moorford that should serve his purpose.
Abruptly, Guest turned his back on the remains of the chalet, in an effort to blot out the feeling of futile despair that was creeping over him.
He picked up the piece of string and passed it round the turntable. The engine came to life for a second, then coughed and was silent. Guest looked at the petrol tank. It was empty. With an imprecation, he got into the boat and pushed off with the single oar. The prospect of half an hour’s rowing was not attractive in his present condition. What he badly needed was a good, stiff double whisky.
5
Guest liked the look of the Shepley Hotel in High Moorford. It was one of the more dignified type, a medium between a high-class commercial and semi-luxurious residential. It would be difficult to imagine anything untoward happening behind those discreet portals. He had left the Morris in a lane two miles back, and walked the rest of the journey, carrying only a small suitcase, which he had transferred to the police car after the accident.
An elderly reception clerk welcomed him with just the right touch of deference.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’
Guest put down his case. ‘Good afternoon. Could I have a room, please? A single room if you have one. I may be staying for a day or two.’
The clerk consulted a book.
‘Very good, sir. Room fourteen.’
‘Thank you,’ said Guest. ‘And could you let me have a large double Scotch up there right away? Oh, and I shall want dinner in my room – about seven-thirty.’
The clerk took a note of this, then touched a bell.
‘If you wouldn’t mind signing the register, sir,’ he murmured politely, pushing the book towards Guest.
Guest took the pen, and wrote: Major Guest, London.
‘Thank you very much, Major,’ said the clerk. ‘The room is on the first floor.’
Guest followed the young porter who had picked up his case. When they had reached the room he turned and said: ‘I ordered a large double whisky. On second thoughts, make it a bottle – and bring a syphon too, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Guest sank into a chair and idly unlocked the suitcase. He was looking forward to the drink he had ordered. It had been warm rowing, and his nerves could certainly do with steadying.
After what seemed an age the porter reappeared with a tray on which were a bottle, a syphon and three glasses. Guest gave him a shilling and proceeded to pour out the whisky. He was just lifting the glass to his lips when there was the sound of a key in the lock. The door opened and, to his astonishment, Iris came into the room. Without a word, she closed the door noiselessly behind her.
The actress showed no outward sign of injury. At the hospital they had found that there were no broken bones, but her shoulder had been badly sprained. A young doctor had persuaded Iris to try a new electrical treatment for which apparatus had just been installed, and the result had been quite remarkable. Apart from a certain stiffness, she felt no pain in her shoulder, though the doctor had warned her that she would probably do so the next day if she did not return for further treatment.
Guest set down his glass on the pewter tray.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he gasped.
‘Surprised, Major?’ demanded Iris, with her insolent stare.
She leaned against the door and eyed him deliberately.
‘What—what happened?’ stammered Guest.
‘Don’t worry,’ she replied sarcastically, ‘your little trick with the steering worked all right. There was a most spectacular accident that would have cheered you immensely—drop that gun!’
Her right arm was whipped from behind her back, and Guest let fall the revolver he was drawing from his coat pocket. Iris came forward and picked it up.
‘Following instructions to the last,’ she said.
‘Iris…things are serious, damned serious,’ said Guest hoarsely.
‘Well?’
‘After you left us at the station, Van and I went to Mrs Moffat’s place; then about two hours ago we went on to the chalet.’
‘I don’t see that this interests me particularly?’
‘We were followed, Iris. They’ve had a man watching the shop for the past week.’
‘Go on,’ she told him, carelessly fingering the revolver.
Guest was obviously apprehensive.
‘The man caught up with us about a mile from Aberford, and the two cars – My God, what a crash! I thought at first—’
‘A dose of your own medicine, eh?’ she murmured grimly. ‘Well, go on.’
‘Van was killed – almost instantaneously, I should imagine. The other fellow was pretty badly cut about, but his car was all right, so I continued the journey alone.’
‘To the chalet?’
He nodded.
‘When I got to the boat, I noticed some smoke rising round the headland, and by the time I got the boat across Skellydown loch the whole place was practically in ruins.’
‘How on earth could that happen?’ she asked.
Guest swallowed hard. ‘You see, when Van and I received our instructions about taking you off the train at High Moorford, we left Hardwick at the chalet alone. He couldn’t escape – we made certain of that all right, but we never dreamt that he’d
set fire to the place.’
‘Then what’s happened to the screen and the beam? And Hardwick too, for that matter?’
Guest shook his head gloomily.
‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about what happened to Hardwick…’ he said. ‘Standing at the side of the lake,’ he continued in almost a whisper, ‘staring at what was left of the chalet, I suddenly felt desperate and hellishly scared. I knew that Z.4 was on the verge of contacting Mrs Moffat. I knew that sooner or later van Draper would be found, and the net would begin to tighten. I came back over the lake, and decided to stay here for awhile and wait for things to develop.’
‘They’ll develop all right,’ said Iris softly.
‘In a day or two I expect I’ll go back to town,’ he concluded.
‘Will you, Major? That’s very interesting.’
There was something in the tone of her voice that made him suspicious.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Simply this,’ she smiled. ‘If it hadn’t been for a miracle, I shouldn’t be here. You did your damnedest to get rid of me, and I always make a point of paying my debts.’
Her voice was cold, level and calculating.
He looked round nervously.
‘You needn’t try any fancy tricks,’ she advised him.
They looked at each other in silence.
‘What are you going to do?’ he demanded at last.
She waited another minute before replying.
‘Strange though it may seem, Major, I’m going to keep you here until a friend of mine arrives.’
‘Friend? What friend?’ cried Guest in obvious alarm.
She pushed one of the revolvers into the pocket of her tailor-made costume.
‘I think you’ll find him excellent company,’ she said, prolonging his agony of apprehension. ‘I’m referring to Temple.’
She noticed his expression change.
‘Paul Temple!’ he breathed almost inaudibly. ‘Why, you dirty, double-crossing little—’
He made a movement towards her, but for the second time she threatened him with the revolver.
‘But, Iris, you can’t…’ he began to protest, but she interrupted him in a voice that was quite relentless.
‘Whether you like it or not, Major, you are going to wait for Paul Temple!’
Still pointing the gun at him, she picked up his glass of whisky, drank most of it, and pocketed the key to his room which was lying on the dresser. Then she looked at her watch.
It was five minutes to five.
Almost carelessly she left the room, closing the self-locking door behind her.
On the way out she paused at the reception desk.
‘If Mr Paul Temple calls,’ she told the clerk, ‘would you please show him up to Room Fourteen?’
‘There y’are, sir,’ said the porter, five minutes later, indicating the door of the room.
Temple knocked twice, but there was no reply.
‘I say,’ he called after the retreating porter, ‘have you a key to this door?’
‘Isn’t the gentleman in?’ asked the porter, returning and fumbling with a bunch of keys.
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Temple.
‘Ah well, we’ll soon see,’ said the other, inserting a key in the lock.
Temple entered.
At a glance he took in the inert form on the bed, the whisky and glasses…
‘I expect the gentleman’s fallen asleep, sir,’ suggested the porter, with a knowing wink at the bottle. ‘Should I wake him for ye?’
Temple picked up the tiny blue phial that lay on the tray.
‘I think you’d find it rather difficult,’ he said.
6
The atmosphere of Mrs Moffat’s kitchen parlour could quite justifiably have been described as tense. It was also more than a trifle stuffy, for Paul Temple, Steve, and Sir Graham had been cooped in the parlour with Mrs Moffat for over two hours.
The two men and Steve had been smoking from time to time, and since the room was lighted by an oil lamp this hardly improved matters so far as the ventilation was concerned.
Up till now there had been few customers, and in spite of Mrs Moffat’s assurance that they were all villagers, Sir Graham had insisted upon her repeating the quotation. Mrs Moffat’s growing irritability was therefore understandable.
Nor was she the only person who was showing signs of impatience. Sir Graham’s nerves were plainly on edge, and he jumped visibly every time the shop bell tinkled. Steve, too, was beginning to show the same symptoms. Only Temple appeared outwardly unruffled, in spite of his distressing experience at the Shepley Hotel.
After ordering the porter to summon the police, Temple had rushed downstairs in an attempt to discover some trace of Iris. The reception clerk tried to be helpful, informing him that he had seen Iris depart in the direction of the station. But Temple felt sure that she would be more likely to leave by road, so he waited until the local policeman arrived on the scene, showed his credentials, and requested him to telephone Aberdeen to have all trains and road vehicles searched.
Sir Graham grunted when Temple told him the story.
‘I thought you were on a bit of a wild goose chase,’ he said.
‘Nothing of the kind,’ Temple disagreed. ‘Guest turning up satisfied Iris’ lust for revenge. She got even with him. That’s all Iris wanted, Sir Graham.’
The Chief Commissioner nodded and paced across the room. Suddenly he turned.
‘What time is it, Temple?’
Temple looked at his watch.
‘I make it about seven-twenty.’
‘That’s right, darling,’ Steve corroborated. ‘I put my watch right by the radio in the car.’
‘Heavens, I’ve been here over two hours!’ grumbled Forbes.
‘And how much longer do ye intend to stay?’ asked Mrs Moffat, who had been maintaining a sullen silence for some minutes. ‘Hanging aboot like a lot o’ sheep. I’ll hae ye know that the shop closes at eight and—’
‘I think you know why we are staying, Mrs Moffat,’ said Forbes. ‘And you might as well make the best of it. We’re here until Z.4 arrives.’
‘Then for God’s sake let’s go into the shop,’ she snapped. ‘We can’t all stay in here. If you don’t get some air into this room I shall pass out on ye.’
‘It is pretty stuffy, Sir Graham,’ said Steve.
Forbes nodded. ‘I know. But we can see the door from here without being noticed. Besides, the shop must appear to be empty; otherwise Z.4 will never come out into the open.’
‘We’ve no guarantee that he will,’ said Temple. ‘Recent events might have changed his plans.’
‘Yes,’ conceded Sir Graham, ‘there is that possibility. But somehow I’ve a feeling that he’s going to put in an appearance, and pretty soon.’
Temple lighted another cigarette.
‘What happened to Rex, Sir Graham?’ asked Steve.
‘I sent him back to the inn,’ Forbes replied. ‘There was no point in Rex staying here. Besides, he was rather anxious to make a start on his story. Maybe he’s gone down to the chalet to see if—’
He broke off as the telephone shrilled.
‘Hello?…Oh, it’s you, Murphy. Yes? That’s fine…good. Well, mind you keep your eyes skinned, and don’t hesitate to challenge anybody. It doesn’t matter a damn who they are!’
He slammed down the receiver.
‘That was one of my men ’phoning from the box down the road,’ he explained. ‘This shop’s guarded like the Tower of London,’ he went on excitedly. ‘Once we get Z.4 in here he’ll never—’
‘Sh!’ hissed Temple.
The shop door had opened.
‘It’s Doctor Steiner!’ gasped Steve, peering through a little window-like aperture which looked out into the shop.
‘You know what to do, Mrs Moffat,’ said Forbes in rather a strained voice. ‘And don’t forget that quotation. There must be no mistake.’
‘He’s waiti
ng, Mrs Moffat,’ said Temple softly.
She favoured them with a hostile look and went into the shop.
‘Good evening,’ began Steiner pleasantly. ‘I should like some postcards, please.’
‘Certainly. Would ye like plain postcards or—’
‘Picture postcards,’ said Steiner, surveying the contents of the little shop with a smile of amusement.
‘You’re…you’re a stranger round these parts?’
The doctor nodded. ‘Very much so, I’m afraid. From Philadelphia, U.S.A.’
‘Philadelphia!’ exclaimed Mrs Moffat. ‘That must be an awful long way?’
‘Well, it rather depends where you start from,’ said the doctor laughingly. ‘Ah, yes. I was forgetting – the postcards. How much?’
‘Sixpence.’
‘Thank you,’ he murmured, as Mrs Moffat handed him the cards.
‘Philadelphia,’ she repeated, apparently rather entranced by the name. ‘It must be a wonderful thing to travel. I often wish I had the time – and the money, of course. What was it that Shakespeare said about travellers?’
Steiner looked at her for a moment, then gave vent to his deep laugh.
‘I can’t recall offhand, madam,’ he replied. ‘But I think we can take it for granted that it was not very much to the point.’
He took a handful of small change from his pocket.
‘Sixpence, I think you said?’
She nodded.
‘Ah, your English coins are so—elusive …’
He sorted out a sixpence and passed it to her. Rather listlessly she placed it in the drawer.
Steiner pushed the postcards in his pocket and turned to go.
‘Good night, madam,’ he said politely.
‘Good night.’
The doorbell tinkled once more, and his massive form vanished into the darkness.
‘Well, I’m damned!’ said Forbes, in such complete dismay that Temple had difficulty in repressing a smile.
Mrs Moffat returned and stood in the doorway, arms akimbo. ‘I hope ye’re satisfied,’ she declared in sarcastic tones. She went to her chair, and relapsed into a brooding silence once again.
A clock outside struck eight.
Mrs Moffat rose.
‘I’ll be closin’ the shop now – or maybe the police will fine me for breaking the regulations.’
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