by Sapper
“I think so,” said Drummond. “Now that we know what we do I see no object in going there. What more is there to find out in France? It doesn’t matter how Burton got on Jimmy’s tracks; all that matters is that he did. Our job is to reverse proceedings and get on to Burton. He’s the key to the situation.”
“Make it so,” said Standish. “And now, Madame, the next point is your charming self. What are you going to do?”
“I beg of you, Mr Standish, not to worry about me. Concentrate entirely on your own plans.”
“My dear Marie, that is impossible,” said Gasdon seriously. “It is essential that we should feel that you are safe. And I do most solemnly assure you that the danger is very real.”
“Well, what do you suggest, Humphrey?”
“Have you any friends with a villa near here?”
“Yes; at Mentone.”
“Excellent. Now it is most unlikely that you were followed here. Since all your kit is still at the Metropole, they will assume that you are returning there. My suggestion, therefore, is this. That you let me drive you to your friend’s villa direct from here. I am fairly adept at the game, and I think I can spot at once if we are followed. From there you will telephone to Monsieur Lidet, but you will not give your address even to him. You will say that you will be returning in a week or a fortnight to the hotel, and give instructions for your room to be left intact. To your friends you can say as much or as little of the truth as you like. What necessaries you require your friend can obtain for you, but you yourself will lie low in the villa. Should the police make further enquiries with regard to last night, instruct Lidet to say that you are ill, and that he does not know where you are.”
For a while she sat in silence, then: “You think that is best?”
“We all do, Madame,” said Drummond.
“Very well, mes amis: I will do it. And you – what of you?”
“I would not presume to suggest a plan to you two fellows,” said Gasdon. “But if you take my most earnest advice you, too, will not return to the Metropole.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing myself,” remarked Standish. “I am certainly prepared to sacrifice my kit, such as it is.”
“Same here,” said Drummond. “And we can post a five-hundred-franc note to Lidet from somewhere en route. Were you serious when you said you were coming over to England, Gasdon?”
“Perfectly. If you have no objections I would like to come with you. Otherwise I will travel alone.”
Drummond glanced at Standish, who nodded.
“Of course we have no objections,” he said. “And it will certainly be easy to see on the run north if we are being followed.”
“I’m afraid, Drummond, that your kit is not the only thing you’ll have to sacrifice temporarily,” said Gasdon. “What is the object in following us? Just as Latimer’s goal was England, they’ll know that yours is. And when you don’t return to the hotel, they’ll warn every port, if they haven’t done so already, to watch out, not for you, but for your car. They’re not the sort of people who would neglect such an obvious precaution as taking its number. And on the chance of your going to Paris they’ll have spies at the Porte d’Italie, and the Porte de la Gare. No, old boy, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave her in la belle France for the time. At some such place as Orléans. You see,” he went on, “what Standish said is perfectly correct. They got you taped in Cannes through Madame. But if you, or rather we, now vanish into space they must lose the trail unless we throw the car at their heads. Their spies at Boulogne or Calais don’t know us personally.”
“Quite right,” agreed Standish. “The man speaks sense. Well, I suggest, Gasdon, that the sooner we get on with it the better. Madame, I am not going to say an obvious goodbye. In case there is anybody watching us it’s better that he should think we are just parting after lunch. But may I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done and told us.”
“It was nothing,” she said sadly, “if it has helped to revenge Jimmy. Goodbye; goodbye, Captain Drummond. I won’t thank you again.”
“And we will wait for you here, Gasdon,” said Standish.
“Right. Sit in the bar, and keep your backs to the wall.”
They sauntered across the room – a typical lunch party breaking up. And in the hall they paused.
“So we dine together tonight, Madame,” said Drummond. “I will see that Monsieur Lidet excels himself.”
“And after that the Casino,” she cried. “Au revoir.”
“A damned plucky little woman,” said Standish as they walked into the bar.
“And I hope a fortunate remark of mine,” said Drummond. “Did you see the gentleman in the hall who half rose as we left the dining-room, and then sat down again?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“He was behind you, but I marked him down. Strikes me, old boy, that their staff work is marvellous, but that the actual performers are not so good.”
“Full marks, I think, to Mr Humphrey Gasdon.”
“Yes. Definitely good value. And a bloke of decided views. I wonder if he’s right about this Communist stunt.”
“He’s right over one thing,” said Standish. “They’ve got the necessary organisation in the country. That I know for a certainty: factory cells, street cells, the necessary instructors, street newspapers. All of which is well known to the police. But taking it by and large, they have so far failed to make much headway. Our fellows in the main have too much common sense, I suppose. Hullo! Here’s the girlfriend once again. I wonder who the lucky boy is this time.”
Madame Tomesco, alias Pilofsky, had entered the bar accompanied by a man.
“Dark and swarthy,” muttered Drummond. “Perhaps it’s Menalin himself.”
As the two passed their table the lady’s escort paused slightly and gave them each a cool and deliberate stare from under a pair of bushy eyebrows. He was clean-shaven with the high cheek-bones of the Slav. His nose was thick; his mouth both sensual and cruel. Not a very big man, yet he gave the impression of great physical strength. And there was a sort of feline grace in his walk as he followed the woman.
“Menalin for a fiver,” said Standish. “And seemingly interested in our unworthy selves. I don’t know that I want him as a pet. What do you want, Johnny?”
A small page with a newspaper on a salver had come up to the table.
“Vous avez commandé ze Daily Express, m’sieu?” said the boy.
“I have not commanded it,” answered Standish. “Nevertheless I should hate to disappoint you, laddie.”
He took the paper, and started fumbling in his pocket for a coin. And suddenly he stiffened: his eye had caught one of the headlines. He instantly recovered himself, tossed a coin on to the salver and put the paper on the table.
“Show no interest, Hugh,” he said quietly. “We are being watched. They’ve got the Chief.”
“My God!” muttered Drummond under his breath. “Let’s see.”
Standish spread out the paper, and to all outward appearances two bored men bent forward to read it. And from a few tables away came a woman’s low laugh…
MURDER OF ARMY OFFICER.
AMAZING CRIME IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.
COLONEL HENRY TALBOT SHOT IN
HYDE PARK.
One of the most sensational crimes of modern times of a nature recalling the dastardly murder of the late Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson, took place yesterday afternoon in Hyde Park.
Colonel Henry Talbot, CMG, DSO, a highly-placed officer at the War Office, left Whitehall rather earlier than usual and started to walk home to his flat in Orme Square. This was his invariable custom if the weather was fine. His route was always the same; up Constitution Hill, into Hyde Park, and thence to Lancaster Gate.
It would appear that the unfortunate
officer paused on the outskirts of a crowd gathered round one of the inevitable orators near Marble Arch. Suddenly he was seen to fall to the ground. At first those near him thought he was ill, when, to their horror, they perceived blood flowing from his head.
A constable was on the spot immediately, and it was obvious at once that the Colonel had been brutally murdered. He had been shot through the head from behind at point-blank range.
That such a thing could happen in broad daylight, in such a place, is well-nigh inconceivable. No shot was heard, but this, of course, would be accounted for by the use of a silencer. None of the people in the vicinity had seen or heard anything suspicious, though one man – Mr John Herbert, of Islington – said that he thought he had noticed two men getting hurriedly into a waiting taxi just after Colonel Talbot fell to the ground. But he had paid no attention and could give no description of them.
What happened seems clear. The deceased officer, whose habit of walking home was evidently known to the murderer, must have been followed from his office. The man or men had a taxi in readiness behind them. When Colonel Talbot paused on the edge of the crowd they seized their opportunity to commit their atrocious crime, trusting to the shifting listeners to make a safe get-away. And this, unfortunately, they seem to have done.
The crime is an inexplicable one. So far as is known Colonel Talbot had no enemies. His military record was a brilliant one. He served throughout the Egyptian campaign and the South African War, in the latter of which he was awarded the DSO for conspicuous gallantry at Magersfontein. In the Great War he was twice wounded, receiving the CMG and being five times mentioned in despatches.
He leaves a widow and one son, Captain Edward Talbot, who is at present serving at Aldershot with his regiment, the Royal West Sussex.
And once again came the low mocking laugh of a woman…
It failed conspicuously if, by it, she hoped to make them display any emotion: she was dealing with far too old hands for that. But inwardly both men were raging with anger. That she and the man with her were responsible for the paper being brought to them was a trifle: it was the filthy murder of one of the finest men in England, and a great friend into the bargain, that got them.
Particularly Drummond. Similar though they were in many ways there was a streak of the primitive in him that Standish lacked. And though both of them had liked Jimmy Latimer, the murder of Colonel Talbot seemed more personal. He was their Chief whom they were actually serving under at the time.
One thing, however, it emphasised – the power of the organisation they were up against. Murder in the Park in broad daylight was not a matter to be undertaken lightly. It showed an almost incredible disregard for ordinary values. As Gasdon had said, England was not France: London was not Paris.
“It would seem,” said Drummond quietly, “that when we get back to England there will be several scores to settle.”
“When,” remarked Standish with a short laugh. “We’ve been in many tight corners before, old boy, but we’ve never been in such danger as we are at the present moment seated in this bar. There is an efficient ruthlessness about our opponents that I find most refreshing. And it piles proof upon proof that the issue is big.”
“You’re right there, by Jove!” Drummond’s jaw was sticking out. “So much the better. For after this” – he tapped the paper – “it’s war to the knife. No quarter given and none asked.”
“That’ll be grand when we’re in a position to give it,” said Standish grimly. “Just at the moment I’m afraid the mouse has to be rather tight before he says it to the cat. Everything depends on whether we can do a get-away from here. And it’s not going to be so easy as those swine found it at Marble Arch.”
The bar gradually filled, but of Gasdon there was no sign. Menalin – if it was Menalin – and the woman had gone shortly after the episode of the paper, but they neither of them felt any the easier for that. They were marked men, and they knew it. There was not the remotest chance of their leaving the hotel unnoticed.
At last they saw Gasdon coming towards them, and he looked worried.
“Madame Pélain is safe,” he said as he sat down. “I am tolerably certain we were not followed. But she rang up Lidet while I was there. And the police have been round asking for you two, over last night’s effort. At my instigation she said you were both returning to the Metropole for dinner, but that she did not know where you were at the moment. Now it is essential that you should not go back. There will be delays: possibly engineered delays…”
“Not possibly, but certainly,” said Standish. “Read that.”
“Good God!” said Gasdon as he put the paper down.
“Worse still,” continued Standish, and told him of the woman and her companion.
“That’s Menalin right enough,” said Gasdon. “And he’ll fix the police. You’ll be kept there hanging about till there is a suitable opportunity to murder you.”
“The only chance,” said Drummond, “is to walk calmly out of the hotel as if we were going back to Cannes – all three of us. We can talk as we go for the benefit of anyone in the hall. And it is just possible that if they think we are going to Cannes they will not bother to follow us.”
“I doubt it.” Gasdon shook his head. “But it’s the only thing to try. And at once. If that was Menalin, and from your description I’m sure it was, it is more than likely that he will put a call through to the police to say you’re here. And if that happens you’re done. Come on. We’ve got to make plans as we go.”
They rose and strolled into the hall, and a man studying some travel brochures drew slightly nearer.
“Let’s go back to the Metropole now and order the dinner,” said Drummond. “Though personally I would sooner feed at the Reserve at Beaulieu.”
“Too far afterwards, old boy,” objected Gasdon. “It’s only a step to the Casino from the Metropole.”
“All right, have it your own way,” said Drummond languidly. “En voiture.”
They sauntered outside, three care-free Englishmen, and got into the car. And the brochure studier sauntered also, at the same time giving the faintest perceptible nod to two men in a low-bodied, powerful racing car whose bonnet was almost touching the tail of Drummond’s car.
“Actual performers are poor,” drawled Drummond.
“That nod was quite unnecessary and settles things. We have equerries in attendance.”
He was fumbling in the cubby-hole in front of him as he spoke.
“Stupid of me, Ronald,” he cried. “I never put a lashing on that luggage grid. Do you remember how it rattled like hell?”
“Hardly could hear yourself speak, old boy,” agreed Standish, lighting a cigarette, and watching Drummond out of the corner of his eye as he got out of the car.
The brochure studier had disappeared: the light was failing, and Gasdon was fidgeting.
“What the devil does it matter about the luggage grid?” he muttered. “Every second is precious.”
“My dear Gasdon,” said Standish quietly, “you can take it from me that there is generally a reason for everything that Drummond does. In due course you will find that out for yourself – perhaps sooner than you think. There was no squeak in the luggage grid.”
Gasdon’s lips twitched into a grin.
“I’m beginning to like you two blokes,” he remarked. “You’re going to wake me up. I was getting fat and lazy.”
“Lucky they were so close to us,” said Drummond, getting back into the car. “And now, my loved ones, hey – nonnie – no, for the great open spaces.”
“What on earth have you been doing?” asked Gasdon curiously as Drummond let in the clutch.
“Adjusting my maiden’s helps,” answered Drummond. “Never known to fail. Entirely my own invention. If the little pretty wants to escape with boy friend from parents in attendant car so t
hat she may dally awhile in leafy glades, she puts one of these under the front wheel of said parents’ car after lunch. The most infallible puncture producer of this or any other age. I am never without ’em.”
Gasdon was shaking helplessly as he looked at the maiden’s help. It consisted of a very sharp three-inch nail which, instead of possessing the usual head, was fitted with a small triangular stand so that the nail would stand upright in the road.
“Placed so that the point of the nail just touches the tyre,” explained Drummond, “and it’s through Pop’s reinforced Dunlop before the old boy has begun to digest the salmon mayonnaise. What’s happened to our escort?”
“They’re about a hundred yards behind us,” said Standish. “Yes…yes…OK, boy. They’re pulling up. They’re out. By Jove! they’ve got two punctures. Both front wheels…”
“Excellent,” remarked Drummond calmly. “And they have only one spare. It would, I feel, be vulgar to wave. Now what’s the plan: to Cannes or not to Cannes?”
“I think not,” said Gasdon, grown serious again. “We could, of course, go by the Rue d’Antibes, miss the hotel, and head for Brignoles. But if they do warn the police to stop the car that route will be watched for an absolute certainty. And we’ve got to run the gauntlet of every gendarme between here and Cannes. Our best hope is Grasse. Swing right-handed when we get to Cagnes golf course.”
“Your slightest word is law, dear boy,” said Drummond. “You know this country a deuced sight better than we do, so we are in your hands. The car, I am glad to say, is fast.”
“Very fast,” agreed Gasdon. “The trouble is that there is something which is a damned sight faster – the telephone. Drummond, we’ve got to abandon car mighty soon, I’m afraid. I know of a by-road by which we can skirt round Grasse, but after that the trouble begins. We get up into the mountains, and roads are few and far between.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Drummond. “As I said, you know the geography.”
“We’ve got to concentrate, chaps, on getting out of France. Now let us assume the worst. When it is discovered that we have bolted, the first thing the police will do is to issue a general warning to look out for the car. Therefore, as we have already agreed, the car must be abandoned, though possibly it might be safe to drive through tonight.”