21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “It’s sound common sense,” the woman declared. “Be off with you, Richard.”

  The man was looking at the coin covetously, but his wife pushed him away.

  “It’s not a sovereign you’ll be taking from the gentleman for a little errand like that,” she insisted sharply. “He shall pay us for what he’s had when he goes, and welcome, and if so be that he’s willing to make it a sovereign, to include the milk and the brandy and the confusion we’ve been put to this night, well and good. It’s a heavy reckoning, maybe, but the night calls for it. We’ll see about that afterwards. Get along with you, I say, Richard.”

  “I’ll be wet through,” the man muttered.

  “And serve you right!” the woman exclaimed. “If there’s a man in this village to-night whose clothes are dry, it’s a thing for him to be ashamed of.”

  The innkeeper reluctantly departed. They heard the roar of the wind as the door was opened and closed. The woman poured out another glass of milk and brought it to Gerald.

  “A godless man, mine,” she said grimly. “If so happen as Mr. Wembley had come to these parts years ago, I’d have seen myself in my grave before I’d have married a publican. But it’s too late now. We’re mostly too late about the things that count in this world. So it’s your friend that’s been stricken down, young man. A well-living man, I hope?”

  Gerald shivered ever so slightly. He drank the milk, however. He felt that he might need his strength.

  “What train might you have been on?” the woman continued. “There’s none due on this line that we knew of. David Bass, the station-master, was here but two hours ago and said he’d finished for the night, and praised the Lord for that. The goods trains had all been stopped at Ipswich, and the first passenger train was not due till six o’clock.”

  Gerald shook his head with an affectation of weariness.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t remember anything about it. We were hours late, I think.”

  The woman was looking down at the unconscious man. Gerald rose slowly to his feet and stood by her side. The face of Mr. John P. Dunster, even in unconsciousness, had something in it of strength and purpose. The shape of his head, the squareness of his jaws, the straightness of his thick lips, all seemed to speak of a hard and inflexible disposition. His hair was coal black, coarse, and without the slightest sprinkling of grey. He had the neck and throat of a fighter. But for that single, livid, blue mark across his forehead, he carried with him no signs of his accident. He was a little inclined to be stout. There was a heavy gold chain stretched across his waist-coat. From where he lay, the shining handle of his revolver protruded from his hip, pocket.

  “Sakes alive!” the woman muttered, as she looked down. “What does he carry a thing like that for—in a peaceful country, too!”

  “It was just an idea of his,” Gerald answered. “We were going abroad in a day or two. He was always nervous. If you like, I’ll take it away.”

  He stooped down and withdrew it from the unconscious man’s pocket. He started as he discovered that it was loaded in every chamber.

  “I can’t bear the sight of them things,” the woman declared. “It’s the men of evil ways, who’ve no trust in the Lord, who need that sort of protection.”

  They heard the door pushed open, the howl of wind down the passage, and the beating of rain upon the stone flags. Then it was softly closed again. The landlord staggered into the room, followed by a young man.

  “This ‘ere is Mr. Martin’s chaffer,” he announced. “You can tell him what you want yerself.”

  Gerald turned almost eagerly towards the newcomer.

  “I want to go to the other side of Holt,” he said, “and get my friend—get this gentleman away from here—get him home, if possible. Can you take me?”

  The chauffeur looked doubtful.

  “I’m afraid of the roads, sir,” he replied. “There’s talk about many bridges down, and trees, and there’s floods out everywhere. There’s half a foot of water, even, across the village street now. I’m afraid we shouldn’t get very far.”

  “Look here,” Gerald begged eagerly, “let’s make a shot at it. I’ll pay you double the hire of the car, and I’ll be responsible for any damage. I want to get out of this beastly place. Let’s get somewhere, at any rate, towards a civilised country. I’ll see you don’t lose anything. I’ll give you a five pound note for yourself if we get as far as Holt.”

  “I’m on,” the young man agreed shortly. “It’s an open car, you know.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Gerald replied. “I can stick it in front with you, and we can cover—him up in the tonneau.”

  “You’ll wait until the doctor comes back?” the landlord asked.

  “And why should they?” his wife interposed sharply. “Them doctors are all the same. He’ll try and keep the poor gentleman here for the sake of a few extra guineas, and a miserable place for him to open his eyes upon, even if the rest of the roof holds, which for my part I’m beginning to doubt. They’d have to move him from here with the daylight, anyhow. He can’t lie in the bar parlour all day, can he?”

  “It don’t seem right, somehow,” the man com plained doggedly. “The doctor didn’t say anything about having him moved.”

  “You get the car,” Gerald ordered the young man. “I’ll take the whole responsibility.”

  The chauffeur silently left the room. Gerald put a couple of sovereigns upon the mantelpiece.

  “My friend is a man of somewhat peculiar temperament,” he said quietly. “If he finds himself at home in a comfortable room when he comes to his senses, I am quite sure that he will have a better chance of recovery. He cannot possibly be made comfortable here, and he will feel the shock of what has happened all the more if he finds himself still in the neighbourhood when he opens his eyes. If there is any change in his condition, we can easily stop somewhere on the way.”

  The woman pocketed the two sovereigns.

  “That’s common sense, sir,” she agreed heartily, “and I’m sure we are very much obliged to you. If we had a decent room, and a roof above it, you’d be heartily welcome, but as it is, this is no place for a sick man, and those that say different don’t know what they are talking about. That’s a real careful young man who’s going to take you along in the motor-car. He’ll get you there safe, if any one will.”

  “What I say is,” her husband protested sullenly, “that we ought to wait for the doctor’s orders. I’m against seeing a poor body like that jolted across the country in an open motor-car, in his state. I’m not sure that it’s for his good.”

  “And what business is it of yours, I should like to know?” the woman demanded sharply. “You get up-stairs and begin moving the furniture from where the rain’s coming sopping in. And if so be you can remember while you do it that this is a judgment that’s come upon us, why, so much the better. We are evil-doers, all of us, though them as likes the easy ways generally manage to forget it.”

  The man retreated silently. The woman sat down upon a stool and waited. Gerald sat opposite to her, the battered dressing-case upon his knees. Between them was stretched the body of the unconscious man.

  “Are you used to prayer, young sir?” the woman asked.

  Gerald shook his head, and the woman did not pursue the subject. Only once her eyes were half closed and her words drifted across the room.

  “The Lord have mercy on this man, a sinner!”

  CHAPTER IV

  Table of Contents

  “My advice to you, sir, is to chuck it!”

  Gerald turned towards the chauffeur by whose side he was seated a little stiffly, for his limbs were numbed with the cold and exhaustion. The morning had broken with a grey and uncertain light. A vaporous veil of mist seemed to have taken the place of the darkness. Even from the top of the hill where the car had come to a standstill, there was little to be seen.

  “We must have come forty miles already,” the chauffeur continued, “what with going out
of our way all the time because of the broken bridges. I’m pretty well frozen through, and as for him,” he added, jerking his thumb across his shoulder, “it seems to me you’re taking a bit of a risk.”

  “The doctor said he would remain in exactly the same condition for twenty-four hours,” Gerald declared.

  “Yes, but he didn’t say anything about shaking him up over forty miles of rough road,” the other protested. “You’ll excuse me, sir,” he continued, in a slightly changed tone; “it isn’t my business, of course, but I’m fairly done. It don’t seem reasonable to stick at it like this. There’s Holt village not a mile away, and a comfortable inn and a fire waiting. I thought that was as far as you wanted to come. We might lie up there for a few hours, at any rate.”

  His passenger slipped down from his place, and, lifting the rug, peered into the tonneau of the car, over which they had tied a hood. To all appearance, the condition of the man who lay there was unchanged. There was a slightly added blueness about the lips but his breathing was still perceptible. It seemed even a little stronger. Gerald resumed his seat.

  “It isn’t worth while to stay at Holt,” he said quietly. “We are scarcely seven miles from home now. Sit still for a few minutes and get your wind.”

  “Only seven miles,” the chauffeur repeated more cheerfully. “That’s something, anyway.”

  “And all downhill.”

  “Towards the sea, then?”

  “Straight to the sea,” Gerald told him. “The place we are making for is St. David’s Hall, near Salthouse.”

  The chauffeur seemed a little startled.

  “Why, that’s Squire Fentolin’s house!”

  Gerald nodded.

  “That is where we are going. You follow this road almost straight ahead.”

  The chauffeur slipped in the clutch.

  “Oh, I know the way now, sir, right enough!” he exclaimed. “There’s Salthouse marsh to cross, though. I don’t know about that.”

  “We shall manage that all right,” Gerald declared. “We’ve more light now, too.”

  They both looked around. During the last few minutes the late morning seemed to have forced its way through the clouds. They had a dim, phantasmagoric view of the stricken country: a watery plain, with here and there great patches of fields, submerged to the hedges, and houses standing out amidst the waste of waters like toy dwellings. There were whole plantations of uprooted trees. Close to the road, on their left, was a roofless house, and a family of children crying underneath a tarpaulin shelter. As they crept on, the wind came to them with a brackish flavour, salt with the sea. The chauffeur was gazing ahead doubtfully.

  “I don’t like the look of the marsh,” he grumbled. “Can’t see the road at all. However, here goes.”

  “Another half-hour,” Gerald assured him encouragingly, “and we shall be at St. David’s Hall. You can have as much rest as you like then.”

  They were facing the wind now, and conversation became impossible. Twice they had to pull up sharp and make a considerable detour, once on account of a fallen tree which blocked the road, and another time because of the yawning gap where a bridge had fallen away. Gerald, however, knew every inch of the country they were in and was able to give the necessary directions. They began to meet farm wagons now, full of people who had been driven from their homes. Warnings and information as to the state of the roads were shouted to them continually. Presently they came to the last steep descent, and emerged from the devastated fragment of a wood almost on to the sea level. The chauffeur clapped on his brakes and stopped short.

  “My God!” he exclaimed. “Here’s more trouble!”

  Gerald for a moment was speechless. They seemed to have come suddenly upon a huge plain of waters, an immense lake reaching as far as they could see on either side. The road before them stretched like a ribbon for the next three miles. Here and there it disappeared and reappeared again. In many places it was lapped by little waves. Everywhere the hedges were either altogether or half under water. In the distance was one farmhouse, only the roof of which was visible, and from which the inhabitants were clambering into a boat. And beyond, with scarcely a break save for the rising of one strangely-shaped hill, was the sea. Gerald pointed with his finger.

  “There’s St. David’s Hall,” he said, “on the other side of the hill. The road seems all right.”

  “Does it!” the chauffeur grunted. “It’s under water more than half the way, and Heaven knows how deep it is at the sides! I’m not going to risk my life along there. I am going to take the car back to Holt.”

  His hand was already upon the reverse lever, but Gerald gripped it.

  “Look here,” he protested, “we haven’t come all this way to turn back. You don’t look like a coward.”

  “I am not a coward, sir,” was the quiet answer. “Neither am I a fool. I don’t see any use in risking our lives and my master’s motor-car, because you want to get home.”

  “Naturally,” Gerald answered calmly, “but remember this. I am responsible for your car—not you. Mr. Fentolin is my uncle.”

  The chauffeur nodded shortly.

  “You’re Mr. Gerald Fentolin, aren’t you, sir?” he remarked. “I thought I recognised you.”

  “I am,” Gerald admitted. “We’ve had a rough journey, but it doesn’t seem sense to turn back now, does it, with the house in sight?”

  “That’s all very well, sir,” the chauffeur objected doubtfully, “but I don’t believe the road’s even passable, and the floods seem to me to be rising.”

  “Try it,” the young man begged. “Look here, I don’t want to bribe you, or anything of that sort. You know you’re coming out of this well. It’s a serious matter for me, and I shan’t be likely to forget it. I want to take this gentleman to St. David’s Hall and not to a hospital. You’ve brought me here so far like a man. Let’s go through with it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can both swim, I suppose, and we are not likely to get out of our depth.”

  The chauffeur moved his head backwards.

  “How about him?”

  “He must take his chance,” Gerald replied. “He’s all right where he is. The car won’t upset and there are plenty of people who’ll see if we get into trouble. Come, let’s make a dash for it.”

  The chauffeur thrust in his clutch and settled himself down. They glided off along that winding stretch of road. To its very edge, on either side of them, so close that they could almost touch it, came the water, water which stretched as far as they could see, swaying, waveless, sinister-looking. Even Gerald, after his first impulse of wonder, kept his eyes averted and fixed upon the road ahead. Soon they reached a place where the water met in front. There were only the rows of white palings on either side to guide them. The chauffeur muttered to himself as he changed to his first speed.

  “If the engine gets stopped,” he said, “I don’t know how we shall get out of this.”

  They emerged on the other side. For some time they had a clear run. Then suddenly the driver clapped on his brakes.

  “My God!” he cried. “We can’t get through that!”

  In front of them for more than a hundred yards the water seemed suddenly to have flowed across the road. Still a mile distant, perched on a ridge of that strangely-placed hill, was their destination.

  “It can’t be done, sir!” the man groaned. “There isn’t a car ever built could get through that. See, it’s nearly up to the top of those posts. I must put her in the reverse and get back, even if we have to wait on the higher part of the road for a boat.”

  He glanced behind, and a second cry broke from his lips. Gerald stood up in his place. Already the road which had been clear a few minutes before was hidden. The water was washing almost over the tops of the white posts behind them. Little waves were breaking against the summit of the raised bank.

  “We’re cut off!” the chauffeur exclaimed. “What a fool I was to try this! There’s the tide coming in as well!”

  Gerald sat down in h
is place.

  “Look here,” he said, “we can’t go back, whether we want to or not. It’s much worse behind there than it is in front. There’s only one chance. Go for it straight ahead in your first speed. It may not stop the engine. In any case, it will be worse presently. There’s no use funking it. If the worst happens, we can sit in the car. The water won’t be above our heads and there are some boats about. Blow your horn well first, in case there’s any one within hearing, and then go for it.”

  The chauffeur obeyed. They hissed and spluttered into the water. Soon all trace of the road was completely lost. They steered only by the tops of the white posts.

  “It’s getting deeper,” the man declared. “It’s within an inch or two of the bonnet now. Hold on.”

  A wave broke almost over them but the engine continued its beat.

  “If we stop now,” he gasped, “we’re done!”

  The engine began to knock.

  “Stick at it,” Gerald cried, rising in his place a little. “Look, there’s only one post lower than the last one that we passed. They get higher all the time, ahead. You can almost see the road in front there. Now, in with your gear again, and stick at it.”

  Another wave broke, this time completely over them. They listened with strained ears—the engine continued to beat. They still moved slowly. Then there was a shock. The wheel had struck something in the road—a great stone or rock. The chauffeur thrust the car out of gear. The engine still beat. Gerald leaped from the car. The water was over his knees. He crossed in front of the bonnet and stooped down.

  “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, tugging hard. “It’s a stone.”

  He moved it, rolled it on one side, and pushed at the wheel of the car as his companion put in the speed. They started again. He jumped back his place.

  “We’ve done it, all right!” he cried. “Don’t you see? It’s getting lower all the time.”

  The chauffeur had lost his nerve. His cheeks were pale, his teeth were chattering. The engine, however, was still beating. Gradually the pressure of the water grew less. In front of them they caught a glimpse of the road. They drew up at the top of a little bridge over one of the dikes. Gerald uttered a brief exclamation of triumph.