Challenge

by Sapper

  His pace quickened; speed was essential. Half running, half stumbling, their hands outstretched to feel the walls, they pushed forward. And at last they reached their goal.

  “Heave,” he muttered, “heave like hell. Those blighters will be in the straight soon.”

  And they might as well have heaved at solid rock; the tombstone would not budge an inch. Someone had replaced the bar; they were caught like rats in a trap.

  “‘Pish!’ said Eric, now thoroughly aroused,” remarked Drummond with a short laugh. “That, chaps, would seem to have torn it. Especially as hounds are in sight.”

  It was true. The island party led by two men with torches had come into view. As yet they were too far off for the light to pick them up, but it would only be a question of moments before they were spotted. And then there occurred an unexpected development. The whole pack swung away up the gallery leading to the house.

  “Now what the devil is that for?” said Drummond thoughtfully. “Is it a trap, or…”

  They were not long in getting the answer. Came a vicious phut, and a bullet buried itself in the ground behind them – followed by another, and yet a third – a third which ended with a different note. Too often in the old days had they heard it in France.

  “Sorry, old man,” said Algy with a groan. “They’ve got me through the shoulder.”

  “Lie down,” came Drummond’s quiet order. Then he cupped his mouth in his hands. “We surrender,” he called out.

  The object of the move up the branch gallery was clear; they could be shot at without being able to answer. A man firing round the fork of the two shafts would be bound to get them in time, and they had nothing to fire back at.

  “Hurt, old Algy?” he asked gently.

  “Only a Blighty,” answered Algy. “Blast their eyesight.”

  There was a silence from the other end; then with a sudden spluttering noise a tiny search-light flared into life. The beam shifted, then focussed and grew steady on the three prone men.

  “Stand up,” came a harsh voice. “I am watching you through a periscope.”

  They rose to their feet.

  “Hold up any revolvers or other weapons you possess. Now put them on the floor beside you.”

  The voice waited until the order had been carried out.

  “Now come along the shaft until you are within two yards of the search-light. I warn you that you are covered, and that on the slightest sign of your doing anything foolish, you will be killed.”

  In silence they did as they were told.

  “Bind their wrists behind them,” continued the voice.

  Three men stepped forward, each with a length of cord, and though Algy turned white no sound escaped his lips as one of them wrenched his wounded arm back.

  “So we scored one bull, did we?” went on the voice. “A foretaste of more to come. We will now show you to your temporary quarters.”

  The man behind Drummond gave him a jolt in the back.

  “Move,” he grunted.

  He jerked Drummond’s arm and pushed him into the gallery leading to the house. At the far end was a square of light, and as he got up to it he saw that the shaft opened into a big cellar. A flight of stone stairs opposite him led up into the house, but the room itself was empty, save for a table and some chairs. The walls were of stone and were also bare, except for a small switchboard flanked with coloured bulbs.

  “How are you feeling, Algy?” asked Drummond as the other two were pushed in beside him.

  “Fine, to what he will do,” remarked the voice materialising. It was the man who they had seen working in the downstair room earlier in the evening.

  The rest of the men came in behind him, and Drummond took stock of them. And with one or two exceptions he was struck by their appearance of respectability. This was no collection of gangsters or toughs; they looked like a bunch of hard-working mechanics. Save for the exceptions, who were the men who had bound them. And they looked what they were – rough stuff who would bump off anyone for a dollar.

  “And now,” continued the leader, “may I ask what you were doing down below?”

  “By all manner of means,” said Drummond frankly. “We are, as you see, on a hiking tour, and this evening we reached the Jolly Fisherman at Helverton. There we heard stories of a mysterious ghost that had been seen near this house. So we decided to investigate. We saw the ghost; we saw it go to ground in what appeared to be a grave. And having waited a bit we proceeded to explore out of curiosity.”

  “Do you usually go on a hiking tour armed with revolvers?” asked the other with a sneer.

  “Not usually,” answered Drummond. “But we had them with us, and decided to bring them tonight.”

  “Most convincing. And how far did you get in your exploration?”

  “Down to the bottom of a tunnel. Then it seemed to be getting so wet that we only went a short way along the level…”

  “When the lights were switched on?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you cut the wire?”

  “I did.”

  “And now supposing you tell me the truth. It will perhaps assist you if I tell you what you did. You continued along the level and climbed the shaft on the other side. There you entered a large cave, which unfortunately for you has its entrance guarded by that burglar-proof light ray of which you may have heard, and which rang the alarm in my room. You remained in the cave some ten minutes, and then left. You again sounded the alarm, by which time I had taken the necessary precautions to prevent you escaping. Am I right?”

  Drummond shrugged his shoulders; denial was stupid.

  “I see that I am. Now then – who are you?”

  “My name is Hillman; this is Mr Singer, and the man you’ve wounded is Morris.”

  “Names are notoriously difficult to invent on the spur of the moment, I agree. But if you must go to the car industry why not Mr Rolls, Mr Royce, and Mr Bentley? Still the point is immaterial.”

  He lit a cigarette.

  “My name is Stangerton,” he continued. “Will you smoke? Unlash them. I think,” he went on as the ropes were cast off, “that you have sufficient sense to realise that any attempt to throw your weight about will merely precipitate your inevitable end.”

  “Which is?” asked Drummond politely.

  “Very simple. The only difficulty lies in the fact that Mr – er – Morris has been wounded. Otherwise by now you would all have – ah – fallen over the cliff in your pursuit of that elusive ghost, which the whole village will be sure to know you came to look for. Very dangerous cliffs here.”

  “I appreciate your quandary,” said Drummond pleasantly. “Even the most warlike of ghosts is unlikely to plug a man through the arm. So what do we do?”

  “The programme still remains the same for you and Mr Singer. You see the currents in this part of the coast are notoriously treacherous. So if two of the bodies are ultimately washed up that will be sufficient. The third need not be discovered, and won’t be. So Mr Morris will be buried on the island tomorrow night.”

  Drummond blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “So you intend to murder us in cold blood,” he remarked.

  “I am sorry about it,” said Stangerton quietly, “but I have no alternative. You must put yourselves in my place. You are not fools; you must realise that something is going on here which I require kept secret. How dare I let you go? You are bound to talk of what you have seen. If, on the other hand, I keep you all as prisoners – what then? The villagers will talk. Hooting Carn will become a centre of publicity – the very thing I wish to avoid. And so – though believe me, I have no personal animosity against you – you must be killed… And killed in such a way that the manner of your death will arouse no suspicion. Another cigarette? And then I fear we must get on with it.”
r />   “Thanks,” drawled Drummond.

  His hand was as steady as a rock as he helped himself from the tin, though for the life of him he could see no way out. What Stangerton had said was plain, horse-sense; from his point of view there was no other way of looking at it. He could neither afford to let them go nor keep them as prisoners. But one more effort could do no harm.

  “Look here, Mr Stangerton,” he said quietly, “aren’t you being a little drastic? I admit we were trespassing, and that we went where we had no right to go. But surely our curiosity was understandable.”

  “Perfectly. But your revolvers were not… In short, Mr Hillman, I do not believe that you are three genuine hikers.”

  “Really! What do you think we are?”

  “Journalists.”

  Drummond raised his eyebrows.

  “Under these circumstances aren’t you afraid that our papers may become inquisitive?”

  “I am sure they will. Hence the necessity of your accidental death. I anticipate that quite a number of people will follow you up, but they will discover nothing. For one thing, the ghost has walked for the last time: his utility is exhausted. As a matter of fact it was, I think, a mistake on my part not to have stopped him after that young fisherman’s death… However, that cannot be helped now. Tell me” – he stared suddenly at Drummond – “what was it that brought you here? Was it the fact that the man was burned?”

  “That certainly has given rise to comment,” answered Drummond.

  “You were a fool, Freystadt, a damned fool,” said Stangerton angrily. “I told you so at the time.”

  A heavy-jowled German looked up sullenly.

  “It vos a great opportunity the gaz to test,” he muttered. “I did not of other things think.”

  “Gas,” remarked Drummond languidly. “Is that what you’re making in the chamber of horrors?”

  “Amongst other things, Mr Hillman; amongst other things.”

  Drummond’s brain was racing: this was something new. Gas had so far not entered into their calculations: it was a completely fresh development and one which, at the moment, he could not fit in. And then with a bitter sense of futility came the realisation that it did not much matter whether he could or could not.

  “And now I think we must conclude our talk.” Stangerton was speaking again. “I am genuinely sorry that I have to take this course. I bear you no animosity whatever personally; to me you are just three individuals who have found out more than it is good for you to know. And so you must be removed. Bind their arms again.”

  It was then that Drummond went berserk. With one glorious upper-cut he broke the jaw of the man behind him and the fight began. Once, twice, and yet again he threw them off him as they waded in, his fists smashing into every face lie could see. The table overturned: two chairs were splintered to matchwood. And it was not until one man got him by the ankles that like a falling oak he finally crashed to the ground, with ten of them on top of him. He felt his arms lashed behind his back as he lay there panting. He heard, as balm to his soul, the groans and curses of the men he had hit. Then came a boot in his ribs, and he was hauled to his feet…

  He stood there swaying drunkenly, with the blood streaming down his face. On the floor lay Peter unconscious. His guard had hit him on the base of the skull with a piece of gas-piping before he had had time to join in. And Algy, helpless with his shattered shoulder, stood against the wall watching.

  “A good one, old Algy,” laughed Drummond. “A good one for the last.”

  His eyes roved round the ring of men: paused on Stangerton’s plum-coloured eye: paused on the gas expert pulling out some teeth in a corner. And once again he laughed, a great laugh that rang through the room, and rang and rang again as a challenge to the last grim Visitor he had diced with so often in the past.

  “Come on, you spawn,” he roared. “Or are you still afraid?”

  “Lay him out, Pete,” snarled Stangerton, to the wielder of the gas-piping. “Lay the devil out and sling ’em both over the cliff.”

  Three men sprang on Drummond and held him, and he grinned at Algy.

  “So long, old man, so long.”

  He braced himself for the blow; then gradually he relaxed. For a sudden silence had fallen on the room; the grip of the men who held him had loosened. And glancing up he saw that a man was standing at the top of the stairs – a man whose face was in the shadow.

  “What an appalling noise,” came a quiet voice, and Algy gave a start of surprise. “What on earth is happening, Mr Stangerton?”

  The newcomer came down into the room; it was Menalin.

  “Dear me!” he remarked staring at Algy. “If it isn’t our friend Mr Longworth – the village idiot. And what may I ask are you doing here?”

  “Having a look at the bridal suite in the new Madeira,” drawled Algy.

  “And you?” Menalin paused in front of Drummond. “Who are you?”

  His eyes narrowed; he leaned forward.

  “Surely I cannot be mistaken even though I have only seen you once. Remove the beard; remove the blood… It is… Well, Captain Drummond we meet at last.”

  “The honour,” remarked Drummond, “is entirely yours.”

  “You know these men, sir?” Stangerton had found his voice.

  “Not the one on the floor – but the other two.”

  “They are journalists who have been spying.”

  “Journalists!” Menalin smiled. “Well, it’s as good a profession as any other when pushed to it.”

  He lit a cigarette, and stared at Drummond.

  “What do you mean, sir?” cried Stangerton.

  “They’re no more journalists than you are,” answered Menalin. “They’re in the British Secret Service, and I pay this gentleman, at any rate, the compliment of saying that he’s one of the very few really dangerous men I’ve ever met in my life.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Challenge Accepted

  An angry murmur ran round the room, and Menalin held up his hand.

  “I do not think we want all these people here, Stangerton,” he remarked. “The room is insufferably hot, and Captain Drummond has not improved their appearance.”

  With a gesture Stangerton dismissed them, keeping only those who had acted as guards.

  “Lash their legs,” ordered Menalin, “and then you three can go also. Remain within call. I fear, Captain Drummond, that you will have to sit on the floor, since you appear to have broken all the chairs except this one.”

  “But surely, sir,” said Stangerton nervously, “if these men are in the Secret Service it is all the more important to dispose of them at once.”

  “And have every policeman in England on the spot when their bodies are washed ashore? Don’t be a fool, Stangerton. The one place they must not be disposed of is here.”

  “But it would appear accidental,” persisted the other.

  “What does it signify how it appears?” snapped Menalin. “All that would matter is that they were in this locality – not that they were dead.”

  He sat down and lit another cigarette.

  “But supposing that it is known that they came here?” cried Stangerton.

  “The supposition had already occurred to me,” said Menalin calmly. “And if it is correct, nothing that we can do will alter the fact. Our one aim must be to create the impression that, although they came here, they left again, having found nothing of interest. And our only method of doing that is to have their bodies found as soon as possible and as far away as possible. So will you get through to Mr Burton at once. It will probably take you a considerable time at this hour of the night, but that can’t be helped. And, when you’ve got him, ask him to start at once, bringing his cure for asthma.”

  “For what?” cried Stangerton.

  “Asthma. He
will understand. You might add that a mutual friend has arrived from the Continent who needs it badly. And now,” he continued as Stangerton left the cellar, “I feel that I should enjoy a chat with you, Captain Drummond.”

  Drummond looked at him thoughtfully.

  “What is the programme?” he asked.

  “So far as you are concerned, a perfectly painless death as soon as Burton arrives. One, moreover, which has the advantage of appearing natural. I can assure you that when he first told me that he could do it, I didn’t believe him. I thought it was the figment of a novelist’s imagination. But there is no doubt about it; his claim is justified. It appears that if a large injection of a drug called adrenalin is made into a vein, death occurs in about five minutes. And since the drug is destroyed very quickly by the blood, no trace remains. I was so taken by the idea that I asked a Harley Street man at dinner the other night, and he confirmed it. Apparently, so he told me, pituitrin has the same effect. But, as adrenalin is used for hay fever and asthma, and pituitrin only in childbirth, I suppose Burton, dear fellow, thought the former more suitable.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that Burton jabbed a needle into Jimmy Latimer without waking him?” cried Drummond.

  “I fear there was a little lying on that occasion, Captain Drummond,” smiled Menalin. “The barman’s assistant had his orders before the boat sailed. Had Latimer not had a drink – well, there were other methods available. But since he did – it was easy.”

  “It was doped, you mean.”

  “Precisely. Enough to produce a very sound sleep. And a whiff of chloroform did the rest. But that is all vieux jeu. Tell me about yourself. I little thought when I arrived here yesterday that I should have the pleasure of meeting you.”

  In spite of himself Drummond smiled: there was no trace of sarcasm in the words.

  “Under slightly different conditions, I would have said the same,” he remarked.

  “Conditions which no one regrets more than I do,” said Menalin. “But when one enters a game of this sort, one knows the risks.”