“I’ll get through to Greystoke; he’s at the Yard. You wait here while I ring him up.”
Before he had finished speaking Owen had wrenched open the door and was back again at the telephone. It is probable that Whitehall 1212 has never been dialled more rapidly.
“Scotland Yard,” came a detached voice.
“This is Lieutenant-Commander Bradwell speaking. I have a very urgent message for Captain Greystoke. I believe he is with the Chief Inspector.”
“Mind repeating your name?”
Owen swore inwardly. “Bradwell. BRADWE double L. Kindly put me on to him as soon as possible.”
“Hold the line, please.”
There were two or three spasmodic clicks, followed by an interminable pause.
“Hullo!” A crisp, familiar voice suddenly broke the silence.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but something has happened that looks pretty serious. Miss Barlow is here, and she tells me that Miss Deane has disappeared. It seems that a woman called at their place yesterday afternoon and persuaded her to go away in a car. She was only supposed to be going as far as Hampstead, but she has never come back, and nothing has been heard of her since.”
“Any idea who this woman was?”
“No, sir. Miss Barlow was away at the time, and the only person there was a charwoman.”
“Hm! May perhaps be a false alarm, but I don’t like the sound of it.”
“Exactly my feeling, sir.”
“A bit too suggestive of our friend Craig’s methods. Hold on a moment while I have a word with Elliot.”
For another maddening interval Owen stood tense and motionless, the receiver glued to his ear.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, sir.’
“We should like to have a talk with Miss Barlow as soon as possible. Put her in a taxi and send her down here straight away. You stay where you are for the present. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry on, then.”
“What did he say?” Ruth had stepped out into the hall and was staring at him with wide-open, anxious eyes.
“He wants you to go to Scotland Yard immediately. I’ll come down with you and find you a taxi.”
“What about Sally? Does he think she’s in danger?”
“She may be. It’s possible she has been kidnapped. We are dealing with people who stick at nothing.”
Ruth clenched her hands. “Can’t you do something?” she demanded fiercely.
“My orders are to stay here, and I’ve got to obey them.” A little thread of blood was trickling down Owen’s lip. “There’s one thing I can promise you, though,” he added. “If anyone hurts her I’ll strangle the swine with my own hands.”
Ruth nodded. “I hope I’ll be looking on,” she said viciously.
Chapter XIII
“Thames Ferry, single.”
James Wilson picked up his ticket, and thrusting the change into his pocket, passed out of the booking-office into the big, garishly lit station. The hands of the clock were pointing to nine-thirty, a relatively slack period in the crowded life of a London terminus. Unemployed porters stood around chatting to each other in small, confidential clusters, while a hiss of escaping steam, punctuated by the loud clatter of empty milk-cans, formed an inspiriting accompaniment to their exchange of views.
In his rather ill-fitting blue suit, with a soft hat drawn well down over his forehead, Wilson was not the sort of figure to arouse any particular interest. Disregarded as a possible source of gratuities, he pulled up in front of the large mechanical notice-board which directed passengers to their appropriate platforms. The train for Thames Ferry, 9.42, was booked in at number seven, and after a furtive glance round, which revealed no sign of any lurking danger, he summoned up his courage and strolled towards the barrier.
It was not, however, until he was safely ensconced in the corner of an empty carriage that he found himself able to breathe with comparative freedom. Now that the crucial stage of his enterprise was so close at hand, the mere possibility of being cheated of his vengeance at the last minute was sufficient to set every nerve in his body quivering with fear and anger. Only by a superhuman effort of will had he been able to present the appearance of casual unconcern which had carried him past the gate, and with the abrupt reaction that had followed upon the closing of the compartment door, it seemed as if a suffocating pressure had been suddenly removed from his stomach.
Tilting back his hat and wiping his forehead, he sat gazing out through the half-lowered window. He had selected a carriage almost at the far end of the train, and judging by the scarcity of passengers, it seemed more than probable that his solitude would remain undisturbed. Facing him on the opposite wall was a poster, a big, gaudy affair printed in yellow and black. It portrayed a harassed-looking gentleman gnawing feverishly at his finger-nails, while underneath, spaced out in bold, arresting type, ran the following explanatory letterpress:
Have you lost your self-confidence?
Are you restless and jittery?
Do you feel that you are threatened
By some imminent danger?
If so
you are suffering from
Nerve Strain
What you need is
LACTOGENE
The world’s greatest Tonic Food
This information, though of obvious interest and value to a man in his condition, was unfortunately wasted upon Mr. James Wilson. Before he had assimilated its full significance his attention was diverted elsewhere. Advancing slowly up the platform were a couple of elderly clergymen, both of whom were engrossed in what appeared to be some earnest and completely absorbing discussion. On they came, as though heading deliberately towards him, and with every step they took, the unpleasant foreboding that he was destined to share their company became more and more distressingly acute.
It was just as they had drawn level that the blow fell. A piercing whistle, enforced by a raucous bellow of “Take your seats, please,” brought them to a sudden halt, and with the flustered air of one who has been rudely recalled to earth the shorter of the two grabbed hold of the compartment handle.
“Come along, Merrivale,” he exclaimed. “We shall be missing the train if we don’t hurry up.”
In agitated haste they scrambled in, Wilson reluctantly drawing back his feet in order to make room for their entrance. As they brushed past him his hand went up instinctively to the brim of his hat. With a quick jerk he pulled it forward again over his forehead, and then, turning an inhospitable shoulder towards the rest of the carriage, resumed his former occupation of staring out of the window. Almost imperceptibly the train began to slide forward.
“Dear me, quite a close shave! It would have been too annoying if we had been careless enough to get left behind.”
“A positive disaster! I can imagine what my wife would have to say. She is always scolding me for being absentminded.”
“I’m afraid it was chiefly my fault. I was so interested in the point you had just raised with regard to Blenkinsop’s amendment—”
“Ah, yes, yes. A most untimely and ill-advised suggestion. I had a feeling that something of the sort might happen. An excellent fellow in his own way, no doubt, but…”
The voices went on and on, a monotonous flow of meaningless words, half drowned by the throb and rattle of the train. Outside, as the pace quickened, deserted-looking suburban stations flashed by with startling abruptness, and before very long the roofs and chimneys that obstructed the outlook had given place to a vague expanse of open country, dotted here and there with points of yellowish light. High up above a rather sickly half-moon peered out coldly through a rift in the clouds.
Sitting turned sideways in his corner, Wilson continued to gaze out unseeingly over the passing landscape. By now the presence of his fellow travellers had almost ceased to trouble him. They
were obviously too occupied with their own affairs to devote any of their attention to a casual stranger, and in a little while the deep, smouldering hatred that obsessed his whole being was the only sensation of which he was actively conscious. It was that hatred which had given him the strength and cunning that had carried him so far upon his journey, and as the train rolled on, and the gathering dark deepened, the rumble of the wheels seemed to frame itself into a kind of triumphant refrain which sent the blood pulsing through his veins with a fierce and almost intolerable ecstasy. At times he had to dig his nails into the palm of his hand to stop himself from giving vent to his emotion.
Only during the last stage of all, the short run between Playford and Thames Ferry, did he succeed by a savage effort in regaining his self-control. As the sleepy-looking platform, with its closed book-stall and its solitary porter, glided into view, he shot a quick, surreptitious glance at his two half-forgotten companions. Their whole interest still appeared to be centred upon Mr. Blenkinsop and his troublesome activities. With a furtive twist he turned the handle, and slipping out as unobtrusively as possible, shut the door behind him.
Three other passengers had also alighted, a couple of bare-headed young men and a stout, shabbily dressed woman encumbered by an armful of packages. They were heading for an open gate in the white palings where the stationmaster had taken up his position. There was a shrill whistle, and, as though disclaiming any further responsibility, the train drifted off into the darkness.
***
With his hands in his pockets Owen paced restlessly up and down the bare, distempered room. In his present state of mind he found it impossible to sit still. It was nearly nine hours now since he had received the news of Sally’s disappearance, and during the whole of that long, dragging interval there had been no further communication either from Greystoke or Ruth. Until the time had arrived to set out for the Yard he had remained there imprisoned in the flat, listening feverishly for a ring at the phone. All the while a vision of Sally trapped and helpless in the power of a brute like Craig had been driving him nearer and nearer to the verge of distraction. For the first time the full strength and depth of his love for her had suddenly revealed itself. Brief as their acquaintance was, she seemed in some unaccountable way to have become the very centre and focus of his entire existence. The idea that she might be in danger of her life was grotesque—unthinkable! What the hell were the police doing, and why, at least, couldn’t someone have had the decency to ring him up? If they kept him waiting in this damned dog kennel much longer—
“Sorry to have been so inhospitable.” Marching into the room, accompanied by the Chief Inspector, Greystoke advanced briskly to where his visitor was standing. “I was having a final word with our friends at Playford, just to make certain that everything is in order.” The shrewd eyes were scanning Owen’s face with a questioning stare. “Feeling a little worried about that girl friend of yours, I suppose?”
“Not too happy, sir.” Owen was surprised at the steadiness of his own voice. “Is there any news yet? Have you the slightest idea where they could have taken her to?”
Greystoke shook his head. “Nothing has turned up so far. It may at any moment, though. An all-station call was sent out immediately, and every man that can possibly be spared has been put on to make inquiries.”
“We’ll find her all right,” broke in the Chief Inspector comfortingly. “Our job at the moment is to get down to Thames Ferry. It’s a hundred to one that Craig is mixed up in it somehow or other, and if that’s so you can leave it to us to squeeze the truth out of him.” He turned to Greystoke. “Better be making a start, I think, sir. It’s ten past now, and we shan’t do it under three-quarters of an hour.”
Outside in the courtyard, drawn up opposite the archway through which they emerged, stood a dark-green, powerful-looking Talbot. Beside the driver, who was in plain clothes, sat the sprucely dressed figure of Owen’s old acquaintance, Detective-Sergeant Campbell. Without waste of time the three of them scrambled in, and nosing its way out on the Embankment between a couple of saluting constables, the car swung to the right and headed towards Parliament Square.
For a considerable while they drove in silence, but as they were approaching Kew and the first stretch of the Great West Road opened out in front of them, Greystoke roused himself from his apparent reverie and turned to the Inspector.
“By the way,” he demanded, “did you remember to collect that gun for Bradwell?”
“Got it here, sir.” Diving into one of his pockets, Elliot produced a small, short-handled automatic, which, after a brief examination, he handed across to Owen. “Not much to look at,” he grunted, “but it will do its business all right, as long as it’s handled properly.”
“I think we can rely on that.” Greystoke glanced at his watch. “Of course there mustn’t be any Wild West stuff unless it’s absolutely necessary. I want Craig alive, not riddled with bullet-holes; but in a business of this sort we don’t know what we may be running up against. If he is in with von Manstein and he happens to be entertaining one or two of that bunch, I wouldn’t put it past them to try to shoot their way out. Anyhow, as I remarked before, it’s just as well to be on the safe side. I should strongly object to losing a promising recruit, especially at the present moment when we are so infernally short-handed.”
There was a grim chuckle from Elliot, and in spite of his own private anxieties Owen was unable to repress a smile.
“Well, if it’s like that, sir,” he replied, “I’ll do my best to remain alive.”
Turning off the main road into a winding, hedge-bordered byway that led towards the river, the driver slowed down to a modest forty miles an hour. Once more silence descended on the party—a silence that remained unbroken until the blatantly “Tudor” front of a modern roadhouse loomed up suddenly in the glare of the headlights.
“That must be the joint Fothergill mentioned.” Elliot jerked his head at the architectural abortion. “We swing right a little farther on, and the boat-house is just at the bottom of the lane. I’ve told Humphreys to pull up about twenty yards short of it.”
Greystoke’s only answer was a curt nod, and rounding a sharp, right-angled corner, the car purred its way forward between two lines of tall, overhanging elms. Then, with a somewhat abrupt jerk, it came to a standstill, and an instant later the lights were turned off.
Waiting until his companions had alighted, Owen scrambled out after them. A short distance ahead, on the right, rose the dark bulk of a large wooden structure, while beyond that the river, a broad, glimmering expanse of moonlit water, stretched away peacefully towards the opposite bank. Half-way across it, the clump of trees on the point of Otter’s Holt stood out blackly against the night sky.
“You stay where you are, Humphreys.” Elliot spoke in a gruff whisper. “I may want you to bring the car down to the bank later on, but if so I’ll give you a shout.” He turned to Greystoke. “Just a few moments ahead of time, sir,” he added. “I expect Fothergill’s inside playing around with his launch.”
Leading the way forward until they were almost level with the boat-house, he unlatched an iron gate which opened on to a gravelled space dotted here and there with the mournful wrekage of worn-out punts and sailing craft. The sliding doors at the back of the building had been only partly closed, and framed in the gap stood the spare, angular figure of the Superintendent.
“Thought it must be you, sir,” he announced, addressing himself to Greystoke. “We’re all ready here, and what’s more, I’ve got a bit of good news.”
“Our friend is at home, eh?”
“That’s right, sir. One of my chaps who was keeping an eye on the place spotted him looking out of a window. He hasn’t been ashore; at least, not to my knowledge.”
“When did he get down?”
“Must have been latish—some time in the middle of the night, I reckon.” Switching on a torch which he was car
rying in his hand, Fothergill conducted them through the opening. “He wasn’t here yesterday, that’s certain, and if he came back this morning it’s odd that no one noticed him crossing over. You can see his punt tied up alongside the landing-stage.”
By the fitful light of the wavering beam Owen was able to gather a hasty impression of his surroundings. It was a biggish place, between forty and fifty feet long, and apparently served the double purpose of a store and a repair shop. Down the centre ran a narrow strip of water, forming a kind of miniature dock. At the farther end, where it joined the river, a small arched bridge had been constructed across the top of the entrance, leaving just enough headroom to permit the passage of a fair-sized sailing-boat. The only craft availing itself of the accommodation was a smartly fitted electric launch painted a dull green. On the wooden staging beside it stood a curly-headed, stalwart-looking young man, clad in dark blue overalls.
“There she is, sir,” continued the Superintendent proudly, “and this is Constable Plummer, who’ll run you across. Lived around here all his life, Plummer has. Used to do odd jobs for the old General when he was a lad, so if there’s anything you want to know about the place, he’ll be the one to tell you.”
“That may be very helpful. You have got a car of your own, I suppose?”
“Out at the back, sir.”
“Excellent. I think the best plan will be to hand Craig over into your charge for the night, and we will make arrangements to collect him in the morning. We shall have plenty to do ourselves, going through the house.”
“He’ll be safe enough with us! I can promise you that.” Fothergill paused. “I take it you want me to remain here sir?”
“If you don’t mind, Superintendent. Sorry to leave you out of the fun, but we must have somebody on this side whom we can absolutely rely upon.”
Motioning to the others to take their places, Greystoke stepped down after them into the launch. Seated behind the wheel, Constable Plummer bent forward over his controls. With a faint swish the propeller began to revolve, and in another second they were gliding silently under the narrow archway and heading out into the open stream.
Trouble on the Thames: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 1) Page 19