‘By Jove, so he did, Bill! And we thought nothing of it at the time.’
‘You must get up to Carrie Falconer quick,’ Mike interrupted, and told them where she was.
‘I can take you right to that earth,’ Mr Midwinter offered. ‘Same vixen, they say, every summer year after year. It’s my opinion that the hunt don’t want to catch her.’
‘We’d be very grateful, Mr Midwinter. Now, if the boy is right, Screw and Chauffeur, as he calls ’em, will be up at the Abbey at present. Once they get away they may take some finding. Will they be on their guard, Mike?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. They believe we are safely inside the spring. It’s impossible really. But they don’t know that.’
‘Well, I shall want you to go with the Sergeant here to identify them in case they mix themselves up with a party of visitors. Feel up to it?’
Mike said there was nothing he’d like better than to see them both run in. The Inspector turned to his colleague and gave his orders.
‘We’ll pick them up first, Bill, so that they haven’t a chance to warn Botswinger. You had better take two men with you. They may have learned a few disappearing acts from Mike here. When you have them, call me! My party will be in the valley and then move on the spring to catch him with his gun. I want that, if possible. It bears out the boy’s story. You know what his counsel will say in court – just innocently looking for a rabbit and the boy was so frightened that he imagined the rest. Then he’ll only get seven years instead of the fifteen we want for him. Any questions?’
‘No, sir. That’s quite clear. Tell my men to meet me at Gallows Hill Crossroads! Tourists they’ll be. Plain car and plain clothes.’
The Inspector picked up the telephone and began to talk to police headquarters. After thanking Mr Midwinter – who forced on him a bar of chocolate the size of a book, saying that he hadn’t had time to finish his breakfast – Mike got into the car with the Sergeant and raced out of the village.
They waited at Gallows Hill Crossroads until two men turned up in a plain grey car. The Sergeant introduced them as Constable Peters and Constable Ridgway, but never called them anything but Sam and George. Mike could hardly believe that they were detectives. One wore a beret on his long, fair hair and looked rather like a foreign student; the other was slung with cameras, one of which was a cleverly disguised walkie-talkie. That explained something which had puzzled Mike – how the Sergeant could call the Inspector when neither was near a telephone.
The Sergeant left his police car to be picked up later, and together with Mike joined Sam and George. They took the road above the Abbey. The gorse brake shone dark green under the midday sun, looking as if nothing more deadly than picking wild strawberries could ever have happened there. Mike shivered and said that was where Beard caught him.
‘He didn’t hurt you?’
‘Not much. He hadn’t any time to waste. He thought at first that Carrie had been able to telephone.’
‘After the dance you had led him I wonder he didn’t drag you through a gorse bush,’ the Sergeant said. ‘Where did you learn it all?’
‘From my Great-uncle Jim. The best gamekeeper in the county, he was. He can put his cap on a stick and walk round and round a hare until he picks her out of her form by the ears.’
‘Blimey! Good shot too?’
‘Now that he’s old he does sometimes miss, Sergeant.’
They coasted in neutral down the lane to the Abbey and stopped in the car park. No other vehicle was there. The Sergeant got out and rattled the ticket window as if he were a tourist anxious to pay his fee and get on with it. Sam, outside the front door of the cottage, innocently admired the scenery. George was on the nearest of the Abbey lawns, from which he could cover the bit of garden and the living-room window.
Finding no response to his rattling, the Sergeant entered the cottage. Nobody was at home. Returning to the car where Mike was curled up out of sight on the floor, he asked:
‘What do you think? You know how their minds work.’
‘I don’t,’ Mike answered. ‘You need Carrie for that. I just sometimes know where they won’t look for me, and that’s different.’
‘It seems much the same to me.’
It was not at all the same, but Mike ventured a guess:
‘Well, Beard told them to clear up. They might have left it till now and be down below.’
‘Show us the way in then!’
‘Of course, you know best, but if they aren’t there they might see you before you see them and run,’ Mike suggested very politely. ‘I can’t spot their packs, so they could be setting up their tents again now that they think they are safe. Shall I go first and tell you where they are?’
‘You? You’ve had enough, son.’
‘You see, I know every inch of that wood by now, Sergeant.’
‘Something in that! It would save trouble to grab ’em before they have any suspicions. But don’t you be seen or heard and come straight back!’
Mike reached the edge of the clearing without any trouble. It was a relief to be hunting instead of the hunted. Screw and Chauffeur were there. Their tents were up. Screw was pumping up a paraffin stove which was just beginning to burn. Chauffeur lay lazily on his back with a rolled sleeping-bag under his head. Mike recognised it as Carrie’s bag, for it had a rip where she had scratched it open with her nails while crazy with loneliness before he had been dragged in to join her. So in fact they had cleared up the cellar, and it was as well that the police had not gone directly to it and given themselves away.
He was amazed how guiltless they looked, that pair of fellows enjoying the sunshine and open air. They could be taken for schoolmasters interested in abbeys, or excavators, or plain campers who had found the same peace as in the time of the monks and decided to stay a night or two.
He slid out of the wood again and returned to the police with his report.
‘Sam, you go round the wood well out in the open and take position on the far side!’ the Sergeant ordered. ‘We shall go straight up the path. And you stay here, son!’
He gave Sam plenty of time to get round the wood and then set off with George. When they were out of sight, Mike disobeyed orders. By this time he had as strong a dislike of open car parks as any wild animal. Besides, Beard might want a drink or more cigarettes and leave the spring to come up to the cottage. The wood was the only place where he felt reasonably safe until all three were arrested. He drifted into it and up towards the clearing to see what happened.
As the police approached up the path, Screw and Chauffeur did not even get up but lazily wished them good morning.
‘Been looking at the Abbey?’
‘Not yet,’ the Sergeant answered. ‘We want somebody to show us round.’
‘The Warden is away. Just walk round by yourselves! Have you come by car?’
‘We did.’
‘That’s funny. I didn’t hear you.’
‘You’re hiking yourselves?’
‘Yes. That’s the way to see country!’
It was amazing how sure they were that they could not be suspected. Mike, expecting to see an immediate arrest with perhaps a bit of a punch-up before handcuffs were snapped on the criminals, thought that the police were in doubt and did not realise that they were just about to jump the pair before they could suspect anything.
He made the disastrous mistake of calling out:
‘It’s them, Sergeant!’
Hearing his voice, the two reacted instantaneously. Screw hurled the paraffin lamp at the Sergeant, which burst into flame. George jumped to his help and kicked it away before it had time to singe more than the bottom of his trousers. That gave a chance for Chauffeur to run for the far side of the wood and Screw to break away down the path at his top speed – which, as Mike knew only too well, was formidable.
The two detectives set off after him but could not compete. Screw raced for the car and wasted a moment testing the doors without any luck. Then he made a dash for the
ruins. The Sergeant and George reached the cloisters not far behind, and were lost to sight except when they appeared at one of the arched openings.
They knew that Screw had not left the ruins but could not tell where he was among all those foundation walls which stood a few feet high. From the ticket window inside the cottage Mike watched George searching the Guest House while Bill kept an eye on the cloisters. Then George covered the cloisters while the Sergeant quickly explored the niches and buttresses of what had been the abbey church.
George passed through an arch and crossed the lawn towards the Library. Screw raised head and shoulders above the low wall.
‘Take another step, copper, and it’s your last!’
Put that down and don’t be a fool!’ George ordered, steadily advancing.
Screw fired. George dropped, clutched his thigh and dragged himself back into the shelter of the cloisters, trailing what looked like a broken leg.
Screw then loosed off two more shots in quick succession, firing uselessly at the cloister wall from which spurts of yellow dust eddied out. The two shots were so close together that any countryman who heard them would think that someone had missed a running rabbit with his first barrel and got it with the second; but to Mike the sharp reports did not sound in the least like those of a shot-gun. He wondered why Screw was wasting ammunition. Perhaps he was testing his pistol to see why he had only broken George’s leg instead of killing him?
Sam appeared from the end of the woodland path with his prisoner, trotting the handcuffed Chauffeur in front of him. Chauffeur’s coat was torn and he was bleeding at the mouth. Evidently he had not given up without a struggle.
The Sergeant, who was giving first aid to his man, called to Sam to take over. While Sam was applying a dressing to the wound, Chauffeur stood by, desperately talking and talking and making no attempt to run. He was swearing to God that he knew nothing of Screw’s gun and that he wasn’t responsible. It might be true, Mike thought, for Chauffeur was the least of the three and had not been allowed to see everything.
The Sergeant was too wise to tackle Screw meanwhile, for he had not a hope of reaching him. He had to content himself with a lecture on not surrendering when he was trapped and could never get away. To the horrified Mike it seemed extraordinary that the police were not armed. He knew that they never were in the ordinary daily routine, but thought they would be when out to arrest a bunch of kidnappers. He wished his father or Great-uncle Jim were there. They would have taken cover and blown Screw’s head off. He was so angry that he told himself he’d have done it with pleasure if only he had a weapon.
At the same time he was a little ashamed of the thought. That was real blood all over George’s legs and the stone beneath them, not the tomato sauce which it was said they used on the telly. It was not right to imagine Screw without a head. Perhaps he had a wife who loved him and anyway it would make one sick. He tried to think of any good reason why Screw should not be killed, but all he could come up with was that the man had made an excellent rabbit stew.
Rabbit stew. There had been an air rifle pellet in it. The rifle might be somewhere in the tents or in their half empty packs.
Unnoticed he slipped out of the front door and putting the cottage between himself and the ruins ran into the wood. He had not far to look. The air rifle was on Screw’s bed. A box of pellets was at the bottom of his bag. It appeared an efficient, well-made weapon, but Mike had never used an air rifle. His shooting had all been done under the supervision of his father or Great-uncle Jim with a .22 rifle or a .410 shot-gun. It was no use stalking Screw with a gun he was not sure of.
He found a picture postcard among Screw’s belongings and pinned it to a tree with a scarf pin. It took all his strength to load the rifle, which made it certain there would be some power behind the pellet. Then he crossed the clearing and let fly at the postcard. The shot clipped the edge, a little low and left. He reloaded, sighted with more care and was again low and left. Clear enough! There was no wind, so the cause was the rifle. He aimed a trifle high and right and grouped three shots bang in the centre of the postcard. That would do for a sparrow, let alone any selected bit of Screw.
Holding the rifle behind his back he returned to the cottage and settled down behind the low hedge around the garden. He could not see into the cloisters, but he had a good view of Screw who was far out of range. The Sergeant, he thought, was very sensible not to attempt to overpower him even with Sam to help. To get at the gunman from any side it was necessary to cross a stretch of open lawn.
Mike wondered why Screw did not come boldly out of cover, shoot down both policemen and walk off. Possibly he could not make up his mind. The ruins were too much of a maze. If he entered the cloisters through any of the archways, one of them might be able to collar him even if he shot the other.
He saw Screw shift his position so that he could look up the lane. A moment later Mike heard the noise of a motor-cycle. The gardener coming back from mowing the churchyard, of course! From where he was, Mike could not see him. However, the living-room window, under which he had crouched listening to the voices of the kidnappers, was half open. He went through, crossed the room into the kitchen and through its window could follow what was going on.
Screw had crawled quickly round the Library wall and was making a dash for the bike which the gardener had just propped up on its stand. He ordered him to get the hell out, and the gardener got. Keeping lawns neatly mown was one thing; arguing with blokes who pointed a gun quite another.
The Sergeant and Sam saw the danger and ran for the entrance to the lane to cut him off, for there was a chance of knocking him to the ground by a flying tackle before he had gathered speed. He might be able to take a wild shot at one, but the other could grab handlebars or man and bring him down.
Screw, having no doubt about the courage of the police, saw the danger. He dashed back into the cloisters and returned to the car park dragging the wounded George. With his other hand he held the gun to George’s head.
‘Get back! Right off the car park!’ he ordered. ‘I’ve nothing to lose, coppers, if I kill you. Do what you’re told or this one gets his now!’
The Sergeant and Sam obeyed. There was nothing they could do, and they were appalled at their wounded companion being dragged along as a helpless hostage.
Very gently Mike opened the window. Screw had to drop George on the ground to get the machine off its stand but he kept the gun pointing down at him. His hand at that angle was a little smaller than the postcard. Mike steadied his elbow on the windowsill. His heart was beating fast and he nearly took an excited snap shot. Then he remembered that his father had told him always to hold his breath when firing a rifle. He did so, sighted a little high and right and squeezed the trigger.
Screw dropped his gun and jumped. The motorcycle fell over and caught his foot. The police, not realising what had happened, started for him a little late. Though Screw was down, he was already reaching for the gun. His outstretched left hand was just lifting it when Mike had reloaded and was ready. There was no time for too careful an aim. He fired low rather than high – the good, sound rule for ground game. This time Screw yelled, and Mike saw blood spurting from his wrist. The pellet had ricochetted off the tarmac and made a long, crippling rip instead of the first puncture which had caused more surprise than damage.
Bill and Sam were on him now, and that was the end. They carried George to a sofa in the cottage – Chauffeur obsequiously offering to help – where Sam continued to dress the wounded leg while the Sergeant kept an eye on his prisoners. They had been so intent on Screw and his hostage that now for the first time they noticed Mike holding the rifle.
‘You? You did that?’ asked the Sergeant, amazed.
‘Well, I saw it all. And I knew he had an air rifle up at their camp.’
‘What, that thing! And you aimed at his hand and hit it?’
‘It’s fairly accurate.’
‘You’ll get a medal for that, my boy!’
> ‘I don’t think I want a medal for shooting people, Sergeant. But it had to be done, hadn’t it? Can you keep it quiet?’
‘It will have to come out in court, you know, Mike.’
‘Oh lord! Will it? And newspapers too? My father won’t like that. He always says that if you want to live your own life your own way, keep out of the papers!’
‘He does, does he? Well, most people try to get into them.’
‘That’s because they live in towns and don’t feel real.’
‘A bit hard on us, aren’t you, Mike? Let’s have a look at that rifle!’
‘It fires a little low and left, Sergeant.’
The Sergeant was tempted to have a shot at a flower pot on the edge of the car park which he missed by a foot.
‘A toy, of course!’ he said to cover his embarrassment. ‘One has to get used to it. Well, now we can call the Inspector and pick up the last of them. He’ll be getting impatient. Twenty minutes we’ve been at this.’
He spoke over the walkie-talkie.
‘Got ’em, sir. But there’s been a struggle and Constable Ridgway is shot in the thigh. Leg broken. Ambulance at once, please … Yes, Botswinger is still there so far as we know … If you drive him up towards us we’re armed now … Quite, sir. Not unless he fires first … No, sir, nothing rash … No, sir, I am not at all excited.’
While George remained on guard over Screw and Chauffeur, the Sergeant went out to the lower edge of the ruins where he could watch the hanger. In a few minutes he was back at the cottage.
‘They want you down there, Mike.’
‘Why? Carrie’s all right, isn’t she?’
‘They hope so. But they can’t find her. And Botswinger is not at the spring.’
Mike raced down to the hanger. The Inspector, two of his men and Mr Midwinter were standing by the fox’s earth.
‘Is this the place you meant, Mike?’ he asked.
‘Yes. That’s where I left her.’
The Inspector put his head and shoulders inside. There was no sign of Carrie.
Escape into Daylight Page 9