Rogue's Holiday
Page 21
David shouted to the man in front of him.
“He’s going to ram her!” he said. “Save yourself, man, for God’s sake!”
The giant seaman wavered for an instant, and in that moment David sprang. His blow caught the man on the point of the jaw and sent him staggering back against the side, where he tripped and pitched backward into the water, an action which doubtless saved his life. The gun flew overboard and was lost.
They were almost upon the yacht now, and she seemed to tower up above them like a great white wall of death. The helmsman had already dived for safety, and David, bending forward, lifted the girl bodily in his arms, and, springing up upon the seat, leapt into the swirling water just in time.
A minute later there was a blinding, roaring crash. A sheet of flame seemed to leap out of the yacht’s side, and all that was left of Saxon Marsh was flung back into the raging water, a burned and battered thing scarcely recognizable as a human form.
CHAPTER XXII
In the Morning
“SHE’S STILL ASLEEP, but she’s all right. Thank God, my boy, she’s all right.”
The man who called himself Lionel Birch came down the rickety flight of wooden stairs and walked across the broad stone-flagged kitchen, his hand outstretched.
David took the proffered hand. It was nearly dawn. Outside the window the thin cold fingers of light were already beginning to creep over the cobbles and beached fishing boats of the little township to which the survivors had been brought.
Although it was so early in the morning, the scene in the big kitchen of the old-fashioned inn known as The Royal Fisherman was a picture of activity. The landlady, a tall East Coast woman in the sixties, had risen to the occasion.
The Royal Fisherman had seen thrilling rescues before in its four hundred years of life, and it kept up its tradition nobly. An enormous fire blazed on the hearth, food and hot drinks stood on a side table, and in the big chintz-hung, sweet-smelling bedrooms upstairs the local doctor and his assistants strove for the lives and health of those whom the sea had treated most roughly.
The yacht’s crew had been taken off safely and were now housed in the school farther down the village. Inspector Winn and his sea police colleagues were still out, searching for the mangled body of Saxon Marsh.
Ex-Sergeant Bloomer, another inspector, and two constables from the Hintlesham division who had come over by car in response to a telephone message from Winn earlier in the night were seated round the fire, warming themselves and waiting for his return.
David himself, looking pale and weary but still very much alive, if somewhat incongruous in a shirt and trousers belonging to the landlord, had been sitting with them.
Lionel Birch threw himself down into a chair and passed his hands over his eyes.
“It’s over,” he said. “She’s safe. I can hardly believe it’s true. I feel as if the last few years had been a series of terrible dreams, culminating in a ghastly nightmare from which I thought I should never awake. But when I looked at my girl just now lying there happy and peaceful and safe at last, I felt there was some good in the world after all.”
There was silence after his voice had died away, and the three regular policemen nodded sagely. They were cheery, good-tempered fellows all of them, naturally a little excited by the thrilling events of the night and curious to hear the full story of the extraordinary crimes of which they had only heard the end.
Bloomer was frankly and unashamedly delighted with himself, and David, glancing at him, realized with a sudden flash of amusement that the old man was having the time of his life.
“It’s a pity we didn’t get the woman,” he said. “It was mere chance we got the man. Of course, they may pick ’er up at the ports, but I doubt it. She’s a slippery one. There’s only one thing for it, Mr. Birch: you’ll have to see Miss Wellington safely married before the year’s out, and I don’t suppose that’ll be difficult.”
He winked shamelessly at David, who, to his horror, felt himself reddening awkwardly. Lionel Birch saw his change of colour and smiled.
“Still, you got the man, Sergeant Bloomer,” he said. “That was very smart work.”
Old Bloomer rose to the compliment like a fish to the bait.
“It wasn’t bad,” he said modestly, and hurried on as the Hintlesham police exchanged amused smiles. They realized that ex-Sergeant Bloomer’s immediate circle was destined to hear the story of his deeds for ever and a day.
There was still no sign of Winn, and one of them generously gave him the lead.
“I can’t think how you guessed he’d go back to the lonely house on the marsh, Mr. Bloomer,” he said.
Bloomer sighed. He could tell the story all over again.
“Well,” he said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and blowing a luxurious cloud of smoke. “As soon as I saw the light I said to myself, ‘If that’s put there to guide the girl to ’er death, and it looks extremely like it, someone’s got to put it out.’ It’s too dangerous to leave it there, I thought, for anyone seeing it after the young lady’s drowned will think very much as I think and come to the same conclusions that I’ve come to.”
“But not everyone’s as clever as you, Mr. Bloomer,” put in one of the Hintlesham constables, and received a black look from his inspector, who was a stickler for discipline.
Ex-Sergeant Bloomer did not notice the little comedy, however. He went on blissfully.
“Maybe not,” he said. “But still, that’s how I reasoned. So as soon as I’d rung up the Loo station and asked for a boat to be put out, I hopped on the motorbicycle belonging to Mr. Birch here and went down myself. Of course, I wasn’t to know that the station boat wouldn’t get there in time. I thought the young lady was as good as safe.”
He paused and looked round.
“Well, as you know,” he said, “I picked up a man, and we went to the lonely house where the light was still burning. As soon as I saw it I knew I was on the right tack. It was an enormous dry-battery torch, quite new, and one of the biggest I’ve ever seen. ‘Someone’ll come back for this,’ I said to the Sergeant and of course ’e did, and we got ’im. And there ’e is in the Loo jail, where I hope ’e’ll stay.”
“Marguerite Ferney got away, did she?” said David thoughtfully.
Lionel Birch nodded. “The police interviewed the servants, but they could tell us very little. Apparently Webb was very clever. While the others were at the fair he motored off in the car which he and Miss Ferney had used all along and came back in twenty minutes. In the interval of the concert he remained talking to them. But after it was over he left Miss Ferney, meaning, no doubt, to pick her up when he returned with the lamp. He never came back. After a while she became anxious and set out on foot. She was never seen again. She must have found the little car abandoned on the moor and taken it. They may catch her, but somehow I doubt it.”
The conversation was cut short by the entry of Inspector Winn. Looking at him, David felt all his old disapproval of the man vanish. Success became Inspector Winn much better than defeat. Success brought him generosity and good temper. It soothed his dignity and swept away all vestiges of the inferiority complex which had tended to make him a difficult working partner.
He came over to David and sat down.
“Found him,” he said, “what was left of him. Not a pretty sight.” He grimaced. “Still, a fitting end for a chap like that, and it saved the hangman a lot of trouble.”
“The hangman?” David raised his eyebrows.
Winn slapped his knee. “Oh, of course, you don’t know! Things have been moving, my boy. While you’ve been attending to this affair we’ve been busy on our end. I had a very good case out against Saxon Marsh for the murder of Johnny Deane, so we shan’t have to go chasing our heads off after that elusive beggar Birch.”
David and Judy’s father exchanged glances. David rose to his feet.
“Inspector Winn,” he said, “I should like you to have a word with me in the other room, if you
don’t mind. Will you come along too, sir?”
In the stuffy little inn parlour on the other side of the main doorway David effected a strange introduction.
“I only found it out myself this afternoon,” he explained lamely, “and then the rescue of Miss Wellington seemed so imperative that I accepted her father’s parole, and we went ahead.”
Winn hesitated for a moment. Then he smiled. In the situation he could afford to be generous.
“Well, as it happened, it’s all worked out very well, hasn’t it?” he said. “There’ll have to be a few official inquiries, Mr. Birch, you understand that, but I think I can safely say here and now that you’ve got nothing to fear.”
Lionel Birch smiled.
“My dear sir,” he said, “now that my daughter is safe I worry about nothing. Her worst enemy is dead, another is in jail, the woman who would have killed her is flying for her safety. There is only—” he paused, and added softly—“Thyn.”
Winn glanced up. “Sir Leo Thyn,” he said slowly, “was put under restraint at six o’clock this evening.”
David swung round, his eyes alight with interest.
“Arrested? On what charge?”
Winn shook his head gravely. “He might have been arrested,” he said, “and I imagine when his affairs are gone into, a warrant will be out for him if ever he’s in a condition to have it served upon him.”
“A condition?” Lionel Birch stared. “What do you mean?”
Winn shrugged his shoulders. “His nerve cracked. He went to pieces. I thought he looked it when I saw him yesterday morning. Last time I approached the nursing home authorities before setting off for the yacht they told me what had happened. They didn’t hold out much hope for recovery. But we shall see.”
The silence which descended over the little room was broken by the arrival of the landlady. She put her head round the door.
“Miss Wellington is asking to speak to Inspector Blest,” she said. “She seems quite all right, sir, but very anxious to see you.”
“Go up, my boy. Go up at once.” Lionel Birch touched David on the shoulder.
David went. He found Judy sitting up in a great chintz-hung bed. She was still very pale, and there were lines of strain round her eyes. But she was herself again. Hers was the true strength of health and youth which neither the machinations of Carlton Webb nor the ordeal through which she had passed could destroy.
She held out her hands. “David,” she said.
He came over meekly and stood before her. “Yes, Judy?”
Now that he had come her courage seemed to have failed her.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said, “for all you’ve done. You saved my life, David. I’m very grateful.”
He hesitated awkwardly. The inclination to tell her that he loved her and to beg her to marry him was strong, but there was an obstacle in the way, and one which he felt he could never surmount.
“My dear,” he said, forcing himself to speak lightly, “I could hardly have done any less, could I? You look awfully tired. Hadn’t you better get some sleep?”
She looked at him with the eyes of a hurt child.
“What are you going to do?”
He laughed uncomfortably. “Well, as soon as Winn’s rested we must go and make our report, and then I suppose I must get back to work. I’ve been on holiday, you know.”
“Holiday!” said Judy, and they both laughed.
She held out her hand, and David forced himself to take it.
“I suppose this is good-bye?” she said.
“I—I suppose so,” he echoed lamely, and added because he could not help himself, “I’ll never forget you, Judy.”
“Nor I you, David. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
The word cost him an effort, and he moved hastily towards the door. On the threshold he paused. She had called him, and his name uttered softly and imploringly had only just reached him.
“David!”
“Yes?”
“Oh, David, is it—is it the money?”
He turned towards her, his face crimson.
“Yes,” he said shortly.
“Need I take it?” Her voice was very small, and he came towards her and dropped upon his knees by the bedside.
“Oh, Judy, I love you. But you’re an heiress, my dear, and a police inspector doesn’t make a lot of money.”
Judy put her arms round his neck.
“I’ve never had any of this wretched money,” she said. “It’s never brought me anything but wretchedness and danger, and I’m not going to let it take away the only thing I’ve ever really cared about in all my life. Besides, they tell me they haven’t caught Marguerite Ferney. You’ll have to marry me, David. You saved my life once. You may as well make sure of it. Finish the job, you know.”
David looked at her helplessly.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I love you so.”
Judy sighed happily.
“That’s all right, then,” she said.
THE END
Love Maxwell March?
Discover more crime classics by Margery Allingham and get your next stories, FREE
If you sign up today, you’ll get:
1. Two Margery Allingham stories only available to subscribers; Caesar’s Wife’s Elephant and The Beauty King
2. Exclusive insights into her classic novels and the chance to get copies in advance of publication; and
3. The chance to win exclusive prizes.
Interested? It takes less than a minute to sign up. You can get the novels and your first exclusive newsletter by visiting www.margeryallinghamcrime.com.
Maxwell March is the pseudonym of Margery Allingham. She was born in Ealing, London in 1904 to a family immersed in literature. Her first novel, Blackkerchief Dick, was published in 1923 when she was just 19. In 1928 she published her first work of detective fiction, The White Cottage Mystery, after it was serialized in the Daily Express, but her breakthrough came in 1929 with the publication of The Crime at Black Dudley and the introduction of Albert Campion.
Whilst her Albert Campion mystery series was taking off, she turned her attention to what she termed her ‘thrillers’; serialized stories for magazines featuring larger than life characters and page turning plots. For this venture she adopted the name Maxwell March and the resulting three novels were later published under the same pseudonym.
Campion continued to flourish. He proved so successful that Allingham made him the centerpiece of a further 17 novels and over 20 short stories, continuing into the 1960s.
Allingham’s writing marked the arrival of a new breed of more sophisticated detective fiction defined by sharply drawn characters, wry observations and a flash of eccentricity. Allingham has been called the ‘Dickens of detective writing’ and sits alongside Agatha Christie as one of the Four Queens of Crime.
Margery Allingham died in 1966.
Books by
MAXWELL MARCH
The Man of Dangerous Secrets
Rogues’ Holiday
The Devil and Her Son
Books by
MARGERY ALLINGHAM
Look to the Lady
Police at the Funeral
Sweet Danger
Death of a Ghost
Flowers for the Judge
The Case of the Late Pig
Dancers in Mourning
The Fashion in Shrouds
Traitor’s Purse
Coroner’s Pidgin
More Work for the Undertaker
The Tiger in the Smoke
The Beckoning Lady
Hide My Eyes
The China Governess
The Mind Readers
Cargo of Eagles
Black Plumes
This edition published in 2017 by Ipso Books
First published in Great Britain in 1935 by Collins
Ipso Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd
Drury House, 34-43 Russell Street, London
WC2B 5HA
Copyright © Rights Limited, 1935
All rights reserved
Margery Allingham has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
CONTENTS
I Murder?
II Courtship Extraordinary
III Three Hundred Thousand Pounds
IV A Policeman’s Lot
V White Lady
VI The Frightened Man
VII Ex-Sergeant Bloomer Remembers
VIII The Terrace Sun Trap
IX The Private Investigator
X Flight
XI A Fortune at Stake
XII The Angry Man
XIII Police Net
XIV Journey By Night
XV A Morning Call
XVI The Men in Disguise
XVII The Witness in the Case
XVIII The Two Who Hurried
XIX Murder Plot
XX The Last Throw
XXI My Future Wife
XXII In the Morning