Murderer's Trail

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  On every stair he told himself that he would find everything all right in the upper room towards which he was ascending. On every stair he believed he was wrong. And when at last he reached the top, found the door of the room ajar, and poked his head in, he discovered his worst fears justified. The room was empty.

  ‘’E got ’em both dahn,’ thought Ben, ‘and now ’e’s gorn orf with ’em!’

  Yes, that was obvious. The tumbled little bed showed that it had lately had an occupant. The occupant’s form could almost be discerned in outline. But now the occupant had been carted away, and also the girl who had been deputed to sit by her and look after her.

  And neither of them had offered any audible protest! That fact impressed itself upon Ben with all its sinister implications.

  Subconsciously Ben pieced together the probable movements of Sims after Greene and Faggis had started for the beach. He had found and harnessed the mule. To a little cart, very likely. He had returned to the hut and ascended the stairs—light, soft steps—and had descended with one of the girls—slow, heavy steps—occasionally pausing to shift the burden, or open a door, or listen. Twice he had made this journey, and each time the girl he had brought down had uttered no sound. And now they were being driven away to … where?

  As the question rose miserably in Ben’s mind, his eye fell upon a little piece of paper lying under a chair. It was the chair by the bed, upon which Molly Smith had presumably sat. He lurched towards it eagerly, stooped, toppled, and picked the paper up sitting. On it was written:

  ‘Don Manuel. Villabanzos.’

  Ben stared at it with almost tearful gratitude. ‘It’s fer me,’ he thought. ‘The nime of the second ’otel! Doncher worry, miss—I’ll be there!’

  He clambered up from the floor, and sat on the side of the bed. He resisted a nearly overwhelming desire to lie on the bed. He knew that, if he gave way to the desire, he would close his weary eyes and would not open them again until he saw Greene and Faggis bending over him. Yes, lummy! Greene and Faggis! He must leave before they got back! He had a double reason for continuing on his way with as little delay as possible.

  Sims would be ahead of him, and they would be behind him. As usual, his mission was to be the middle of the sandwich!

  Still, there were one or two small matters to be attended to before he left the hut with all its gloomy associations. The first was food. He wanted a bit in his stomach and a bit in his pocket. Descending the stairs, he hunted around, but he couldn’t find a crumb. Sims had taken the sack, and had evidently cleared out the larder as well.

  Next, weapons. ‘I’ve got me sirocco,’ he thought; ‘but if there’s hennything helse knockin’ abart, I might as well ’ave it.’ He found a hammer, and put it in his pocket with satisfaction. It went right through the pocket on to the floor, so he picked it up and tried the other pocket. This proved all right for hammers.

  Lastly, the two dead men. Answering an odd impulse for which he could not account, he paid a final visit to the room in which they awaited some final ministration from the living. There was not much Ben could do, and there was no call for him to do anything; but somehow he hated the idea of leaving the Spaniard bound, and he loosened the cords that secured him and then eased the body to the floor.

  The two bodies now lay side by side. It gave Ben a funny feeling to look at them. Had they truly, only a short while ago, been at each other’s throats? Rapacity and life had divided them. Peace and death brought them together again, destroying their quarrel and their menace. ‘Good luck ter yer,’ muttered Ben. And shoved the table-cloth over them.

  Then, rather ashamed of himself, he left the hut, gave an anxious glance westwards in the direction of the coast, and turned his face eastwards.

  He had used several minutes in these preliminaries to departure, but two of the preliminaries had been practical, and only the third sentimental; and even the sentimental preliminary had been necessary for his peace of mind. If he had left the little Spaniard bound in the chair, the vision would have haunted him horribly. It was much pleasanter to think of the poor, ugly fellow lying quietly under the table-cloth, next to his old foe …

  The moon was high, and the track, as Ben stepped out upon it from the shadows of the cottage, was dazzlingly clear. If the moonlight showed up the dizzy valleys and gorges as well as the track, and made the mountain-tops look like great white ghosts, it was nevertheless welcome. In darkness, this journey would have been impossible.

  After all, you could keep clear of the gorges if you walked straight and didn’t wobble, and you needn’t look at the ghostly mountain peaks, not if you didn’t want to! And you didn’t want to. One of the peaks was like a sword point, and another was like a witch’s face, and another was like a crocodile’s open mouth. And no matter how fast you walked, they all seemed to be walking along with you, telling you that you weren’t going to get away from them and so you needn’t think it!

  ‘Funny thing abart mountins,’ reflected Ben. ‘Yer can pass a ’ouse in a tick and ’ave done with it, but a mountin sticks ter yer like. Wunner why it is?’

  But he soon stopped wunnering. The mountains were on his right and, the valleys were on his left, and his reflective mood had brought him too near the valleys. He veered away swiftly, and, as though in response, a valley suddenly darted towards him, seeming to slash his road in two with a vast black knife.

  A deep gully ran in southwards from the left, stabbing the mountainside which had gradually crept forward from the right to the very edge of the track. The gully ended in a point, and was perhaps more like a black arrow than a knife, an arrow that had been shot by some invisible giant from the north and had wounded sheer rock. A hundred yards ahead of the spot where Ben paused and gasped at space was another spot where, presumably, he had to get to. He could see the track gleaming as it emerged from the dark gash in the mountainside. Before the giant had sent this shattering arrow, the road had probably run straight across this great dividing gap, but now one had to turn sharply to the right, and creep round the wound.

  ‘Well,’ murmured Ben, ‘wot I ses is, wot yer gotter, yer gotter, and I gotter!’

  So he turned to the right, and crept.

  On one side, sheer rock. On the other, sheer precipice. Immediately beneath, a narrow, rough track that was sometimes not more than nine feet across. Nine feet from rock to precipice. And a precipice, you understand, that to look over was almost to fall over. Its carpet, surely, was in another world!

  Ben began erect. Then he found himself stooping. In that position you could hit the mountain more quickly if it came too close, or dart away from the precipice if it advanced too near. Then, when the precipice insisted on advancing too near, and the mountain refused to go back, he found himself crawling. After all, nobody was looking.

  Crawling, he neared the extremity of the incision. He wasn’t looking at it, but he was conscious of it, because the precipice was narrowing and the wall of cliff on the opposite side was looming closer and closer. It seemed to be pressing down upon him. Trying to prevent him from breathing. The silence became more intense. Not that he had heard anything before, but sound, as a theory, had existed. Here, in this appalling, suffocating vastness—not the vastness one escaped in but the vastness that squeezed one into nothingness—even the theory of sound ceased to be.

  ‘Gawd! Where’s me ’eart!’ thought Ben.

  Not even that!

  Then, with a sharp crack, the theory of sound swept back.

  ‘Oi!’ thought Ben. ‘Some ’un’s shootin’ me!’

  He tried to lie flat, but couldn’t, because he was. The cracking continued, then a little dribble, as of a dancing stone. The stone danced during a second of freedom after a century of captivity. Plop! The swansong rose from the depths, where the stone had reached captivity again for yet another century.

  Thus Ben’s crawling body influenced the history of geology.

  ‘’Ere it is agine,’ thought Ben.

  His heart had retu
rned, and was thumping the ground like a hammer.

  He crawled on. Now he reached the extremity of the wound. The spot where it had hurt, and where the mountain had roared, ‘Ow!’ How was the track going to negotiate this cruel V? Suppose … it didn’t? The thought brought sweat.

  The track didn’t negotiate the V. A few boards did. Ben crept up to the boards. Blackness shrieked at him. From above and below and all sides. Some of the sweat dripped down into the blackness below. For the first time in his life, Ben pitied the stars.

  He repeated his slogan. ‘Wot yer gotter, yer gotter.’ He got to the middle of the boards. Then, they swayed. He grabbed them to hold them up. Then, doubtful whether this was scientific, he grabbed himself, to hold himself up. The boards went on swaying.

  He tried to move, but failed. He was holding himself too tightly. The situation grew more and more impossible. He decided to think of all the nice times he had had in the past. He found he hadn’t had any. The situation now became quite impossible. If you can’t hang on to your past while you’re going into the future, what’s the use? He gave up trying, and did whatever he was told to. Apparently he was told to start singing ‘Three Sailors of Bristol City.’

  Suddenly he stopped singing. He didn’t know why. Again he was merely doing what he was told. Had the world he was about to leave had enough of the song?

  All at once he discovered there was another reason why he had stopped singing. Voices were on the track behind him. Greene’s and Faggis’s.

  27

  The End of the Bridge

  The voices grew nearer and nearer. Vague murmurings turned into coherent sound. A definite growl came from Faggis. An oath issued from the third officer. Thirty-five yards, thirty yards, twenty-five yards …

  ‘Damn the darkness!’

  That was Greene. Twenty yards.

  ‘Black as hell!’

  That was Faggis. Fifteen yards.

  It is said that a chicken can run for a second or two after it has been decapitated. Similarly, Ben’s mind went on working after all was lost. While the fifteen yards became fourteen and the fourteen thirteen, two solutions occurred to him. One was to roar like a lion and the other was to make a noise like a carpet. Neither would have helped him, but he was still earnestly considering their respective merits when Faggis suddenly paused and saved the necessity of a decision.

  ‘Look here, Greene,’ said Faggis. ‘I wonder if we’re a couple of fools?’

  ‘Speak for your own half of the couple,’ replied Greene. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Maybe it’s your half’ll be the fool if you do go on,’ retorted Faggis. ‘However, don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘Hell! What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I’m trying to grow wise in my old age, Greene,’ grunted Faggis. ‘D’you suppose we may be on our second wild goose chase?’

  There was a short silence, broken by the splutter of a match. Greene was lighting a cigarette. While Ben was praying that its feeble illumination would not reveal him, it suddenly went out.

  ‘Hey! What’s that for?’ demanded Greene’s indignant voice.

  ‘For safety,’ came Faggis’s, in a lower key. ‘How d’you know Sims isn’t watching us?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Greene’s voice was still tinged with indignation, but it was noticeably quieter.

  ‘What I say, Greene,’ answered Faggis. ‘He’s up to any trick, that blackguard. May be waiting up at the end there to pounce upon us and pitch us over.’

  ‘Like to see him try!’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t! He’s got the gun! And he’s used it once since we last saw him, don’t forget.’

  ‘On that ugly blighter?’

  ‘Yep!’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. That was the fellow he expected to welcome us. It was the other darned blighter shot him.’

  ‘Bah! You’re guessing!’

  ‘And, of course, you know!’

  ‘No, I don’t know! And that’s why I’m wondering whether we’re a couple of fools to go on any farther till we do!’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’ demanded Greene.

  ‘Going back,’ answered Faggis. ‘Going back, and having a proper look round.’

  Greene considered the suggestion. The men were clearly out of tune with each other, but neither could afford to ignore any proposal that might be good. Greene decided, however, that this proposal was not good.

  ‘I tell you, there’s no need to look round more than we’ve done already,’ he said. ‘It’s obvious that Sims sent us to the beach to get rid of us. That’s why we turned back, isn’t it? It’s obvious he wanted us out of the way so that he’d have time to clear off with the girl—’

  ‘With both girls, you mean,’ corrected Sims. ‘And the scarecrow. The whole damned lot of ’em. How’s he done it? And why’s he done it? If he’d wanted to get rid of us, wouldn’t he have got rid of them too?’

  ‘P’r’aps he did.’

  ‘Then where were they?’

  ‘Never heard of a precipice?’

  ‘Precipice your foot! He’s got the scarecrow bound up and gagged, and you suggest he unties him and throws him over a precipice. And that girl—d’you think she wouldn’t put up a fight—’

  ‘I tell you, you don’t know Sims—’

  ‘And I tell you, you’re too cocksure of your own little bit of knowledge, Greene! You talk about things being obvious, but nothing’s obvious! Except that something darned queer happened while we were away. How do we know that Sims didn’t have to sheer off for a while, and wait? Why, man,’ Faggis went on, developing his theory, ‘they may all be back at the cottage now, while we’re plodding on like a couple of silly rabbits … See here, Greene! Maybe that’s another of his little wheezes! Hey, yes! What about this? If he’s got into any trouble—or been cut off—or if it suited his purpose for any other reason, how do we know he’s not sneaking down to the beach, and making off again in the boat?’

  ‘And what about this?’ growled Greene, his indignation returning on the tide of his scepticism. ‘Are you doing any good by raising your voice and shouting your ideas to the world? You told me to be quiet just now, and here you are shouting like a cup-tie crowd!’

  ‘Oh, shut up—’

  ‘I’m not going to shut up. You talk about fools, Faggis, but the difference between you and me is that sometimes I stop being one. The trouble is, you’ve got no brain. You can stick a man in the back, but you need someone to tell you when and how to do it. You get the wind up—’

  ‘Wind up—’

  ‘… The wind up, I said, and I stick to it! All these mad half-baked ideas of yours are the result of the fear that’s working behind your drawl! I’ll tell you where I’m smarter than you, Faggis. I know when I’m in the presence of a superior, and you don’t. Sims is my superior, and I’m yours, and the sooner you realise it, the better it’ll be. Well, I’m going on. What are you going to do? If you want to turn back, don’t talk about it, but do it. I shan’t weep any tears.’

  There came the sound of a sharp breath. An exclamation followed it.

  ‘Let go, you blasted fool!’ cried Greene.

  ‘Wind up, eh?’ drawled Faggis, but with fury beneath the drawl. ‘Carry on, Greene—but remember I can give you the wind up any moment I want to. Just like that! See?’

  Another exclamation, low and sullen. A short silence. Then the third officer gulped:

  ‘Yes, we are fools, Faggis. Panic and silly pride can drive you to murder, and my own folly drives you into a panic. Well, that little scene’s over, so let’s see whether we can now behave like adults again, and get a move on!’

  He had scarcely finished speaking when another little scene, waiting only ten yards away, was preluded by a sudden cracking sound.

  ‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Faggis sharply.

  The sound was repeated, and now more loudly. A board seemed to be splitting somewhere, and the echoes in the V-shaped cleft ricochetted from rock to rock like thu
nder. The men swung round towards the point whence the noise appeared to come—ten yards ahead, where the track hit the deeply shadowed angle and twisted back on itself …

  Crack! Split! Boom!

  Then a pause. Then, a tiny crashing clatter, as the descending wood struck naked rock two thousand feet below.

  ‘Well?’ muttered Faggis.

  But Greene was waiting no longer. He was hastening forward, and, as he hastened, there came another crack and another split, and more wood dropped swirling down into the void.

  Greene did not know what was happening, but he had to know. Ever since he and Faggis had left the hut with the intention of returning to the beach he had been dogged by doubts and worried by ignorance. The return to the hut, despite its gruesome evidence of certain very definite happenings, did not remove the veil. They had left the hut again and had walked on into the veil. Greene had told Faggis that Sims was obviously double-crossing them, but this did not mean that he was certain of it in his own heart. It merely meant that with a man like Faggis—a man large-limbed and small-brained, and dangerous on account of both—definiteness was sometimes the only policy. You had to pretend to be sure, just to avoid following theories less probable or frankly impossible. Actually, Greene was certain of nothing beyond his own perplexity.

  And now, on a track over which Sims might have travelled before them, a series of miniature explosions was occurring. The truth of these could be discovered, at least.

  He reached the point from which the explosions came, with Faggis a couple of yards behind him. The track ended a short space before the extreme point of the cleft. It began again across a black chasm of space, some eight or nine feet distant, and spanning the chasm was a single, swaying board.

  And even as they stared at the board, it vanished from their sight into the pool of velvet.

  Then another sound fell upon their ears. It was probably the strangest sound that had ever been known by these primeval rocks. From the shadows across the chasm came a hysterical voice warbling:

  ‘There were three sailors of Bristol City,