Knock Out

by Sapper

  He stood for a moment cursing himself for a fool: then reaching out his hand encountered a smooth cold wall. He ran his fingers along it to find the door: all they met was a barely perceptible crack in the shiny surface. And he suddenly remembered his torch.

  He switched it on, letting the beam travel round. And the first thing it picked up was a slanting red line above his head on one of the side walls; then the countersunk door he had just come in by. He was in a squash court: the wooden steps outside led to the gallery, and that was why it had all seemed so familiar.

  He tried the door at once, but as he expected it had been bolted on the other side. And once again he began to do some rapid thinking. Escape was impossible: he could not reach the gallery with his hands even by jumping.

  He took a step backwards, and nearly fell over the petrol tin, which he picked up and put against the wall. Then still trying to puzzle things out he commenced to walk about. Why had they taken the trouble to put him in a squash court? Was it just a prison, or was there some deeper motive?

  There was no overhead glass, but at the back of the gallery he could see the faint outline of two windows. There lay a way out if only he could get there – a way out which short-circuited the passage back to the house. And then another idea struck him. Using his torch he went carefully round the four walls to find out if by chance there was another entrance. But there was no sign of one: the court was a genuine one, untampered with in any way.

  Suddenly he stiffened and switched out his torch: someone was going up the wooden staircase that led to the gallery. He listened intently: more than one person was there. He backed into the centre of the court, his eyes fixed on the window across which whoever it was would have to pass. He counted three dim shadows: then came the sound of a chair being moved: the audience had arrived.

  There was no doubt about it now: the court was not merely aprison. Something was going to happen which the three spectators had come to watch. And even as he arrived at that conclusion he got a whiff of the same scent that he had noticed in the hall. A woman was up there in the gallery – the woman who had just arrived by car. Could it be Corinne Moxton with Pendleton?

  He stood undecided: should he call out to them and ask what the devil the game was? Or should he switch his torch on and endeavour to see them? And he was still trying to make up his mind when suddenly the court was flooded with light. But it was not the ordinary lighting which comes from the roof and illuminates the floor and the gallery equally. A powerful arc lamp had been fitted at the top of the back wall in the centre, with the result that the gallery behind it was in impenetrable darkness as far as he was concerned. Of the three spectators he could see no trace, though he knew they were there behind the light.

  A pulse was beginning to beat in his throat, and he was white round the nostrils. Seldom in his life had Hugh Drummond been in the grip of such overmastering rage. His great hands hung clenched by his sides: his breathing had quickened. Was somebody going to plug him like that, a sitting target? Or what was going to happen? And the next instant he knew it was not the former. For the door in the back wall underneath the arc lamp was being slowly opened.

  Chapter 6

  The sight steadied him: if there was going to be a gladiatorial exhibition, the audience should have their money’s worth. And it would not be his fault if the result proved different to what they expected. The door was still opening, but as yet he could not see who was outside. And it struck him that his present position was strategically unsound. In an instant he was across the court and standing by the door, so that when it was fully open it would be between him and whoever was coming in. At any rate they would start fair.

  A board close to him creaked slightly, and he saw the shadow of a head just beyond the edge of the door which was now at right angles to the back wall. And at that moment came Demonico’s voice from the gallery.

  “Well, Mr Atkinson Drummond, let’s see if you prefer this to the dog.”

  So he did know: that point was settled anyway.

  “I’m sure I shall, you bald-headed old swine,” said Drummond cheerfully, at the same time dodging back a couple of yards.

  It was a sound move: thinking he had located Drummond the maker of the shadow was round the door like a flash. And for a second Drummond stared at his adversary aghast. He was a gigantic individual with the coarsened, vicious features of a low-down professional pug. But it was not at his face Drummond was looking, nor at the great torso and shoulders; it was at his hands. Encasing each of them was a canvas glove from which steel spikes stuck out front and back. The spikes were about an inch long and sharp-pointed, and after that one momentary pause Drummond moved, and moved quickly. The best method of dealing with this gentleman would have to be thought out, and until he had made up his mind anything in the nature of close quarters must be avoided.

  The man had slammed the door, and with an ugly leer on his face he made a dash at Drummond, who quietly dodged. His brain was working at top pressure sizing up the situation. This must be the method by which Gulliver’s throat had been torn out after he was dead, and he had no intention of letting the brute experiment on a living specimen. But he was under no delusions: once get to close grips and he was done for. The man was, if anything, longer in the reach than he: the instant those diabolical gloves were round his throat it was the finish.

  Outfighting, too, was out of the question: one back-hander to his head that got home would lay him out. And still he dodged easily and methodically, keeping in the centre of the court, while Demonico’s sneering remarks from the gallery kept up a running accompaniment. A gladiatorial exhibition it was, with a woman as a spectator! And as the amazing unreality of it struck him one of the gloves whistled past his face, missing him by the fraction of an inch.

  He pulled himself together as Demonico laughed: that would not do. The devil of it was that the man, in spite of his low type, was almost, if not quite, as fit as he was, and the thing could not go on indefinitely. Besides, all his opponent had to do if he wanted a rest was to go and stand by the door for as long as he pleased.

  The door! Was there a chance of opening it and getting out? It meant putting himself in a hopelessly unfavourable position for at least a second while he tried it to see if it was bolted. And once again a glove flashed past his face, grazing his cheek and drawing blood.

  The blow roused him to fury, but it was the cool collected rage of the born fighter. He did nothing rash, which would have been playing straight into the other man’s hands, but it made up his mind for him. He would take the offensive. And the first idea that came to him was the ordinary Rugby tackle. He knew he could bring the other down that way, but what then? Unless the man happened to be stunned by the fall, it would mean close fighting on the ground, which was every bit as dangerous as if they were standing.

  And then suddenly his eyes fell on a small dark object against the wall – the tin of petrol. He had forgotten about it, and it dawned on him that there lay the germ of a plan. Still feinting and dodging he thought it out, and at last he got it cut and dried. A risk – but something had got to be done.

  Little by little he began to breathe faster, and he saw a look of triumph gleam on the other’s face.

  “Getting tired, Pansy face,” grunted the other. “Best give it up and come and take your medicine.”

  He did not answer: his knees seemed to sag a little; but every step took him nearer the door.

  “He’s going to try and bolt,” yelled Demonico, and the man grinned sardonically. But no trace of expression showed on Drummond’s face, though it was exactly what he wanted them to believe.

  Out of the corner of his eye he was measuring his exact position: it was going to be a question of the fraction of a second. He was gasping now, and after each move he swayed a little.

  At last he got to the spot he intended – half-way between the door and the tin and
about a yard from the wall. And then he feinted in earnest. He made as if to spring for the door, and in the same movement went the other way. Completely deceived, the man, thinking he had him, sprang too. And Drummond had the tin by the handle, while the other, half off his balance, fell against the door. Came a grunt of rage: the tin was whirled round Drummond’s head, as if it was a feather, catching his opponent fair and square on the nape of the neck. And without a sound the man crashed like a log to the floor and lay still.

  Drummond seized him by the legs and swung him clear of the door: to get at Demonico was his only thought. But that gentleman had waited not on the order of his going: by half a second he had managed to get the bolt shot home on the other side of the door. And Drummond cursed savagely, but only for a moment. For though this method of finishing him off had failed, he was still a sitting target to anyone in the gallery.

  Taking the unconscious man again by the feet he dragged him into one of the far corners of the court. He took off the spiked gloves and flung them away. Then if necessary he could lift the man up and hold him in front of his own body as a shield. It would be a tiring proceeding, but there was no other possible method that he could see of getting any cover, and even that would be totally inadequate if they sent an armed man into the court itself.

  He stood listening intently: it was inconceivable that Demonico would allow him to get away with it. But the minutes passed and there was no sign of anyone. And then suddenly from far away in the distance he heard the faint sound of shouting. He took a few steps forward: the noise was increasing. And to his amazement he recognised Peter’s voice, bellowing “Hugh” at the top of his lungs.

  “Peter,” he roared, “I’m in the squash court.”

  “Coming, old boy. Where’s the blinking door?”

  He was just outside and Drummond heaved a sigh of relief: the last half-hour had been a bit of a strain.

  “The only way in is through the house,” he shouted, “unless you break the window in the gallery.”

  “Right,” came the answer. “With you in a moment.”

  Drummond heard voices outside, some of which he recognised: Algy Longworth’s inane drawl; Ted Jerningham; Toby Sinclair. Peter had arrived with the old bunch, but why he had so providentially done so was beyond him. And where were all Demonico’s men?

  “Get on my shoulders, you blithering ass,” came Peter’s voice. “And don’t put your dirty foot in my mouth.”

  “All right; all right,” bleated Algy. “But I’m not a ruddy Blondin.”

  There was a crash of breaking glass, and Algy’s voice again.

  “I’ve been and gone and cut my new suiting. Hugh, old boy, be of good heart; little Algy is coming.”

  “Hurry up, you ghastly mess,” shouted Drummond.

  “Where’s the door?” cried Algy, scrambling into the gallery.

  “Where it usually is in a squash court,” said Drummond resignedly. “You don’t imagine it’s in the roof, do you? By Jove! Algy,” he added a moment later as Algy came into the court, “I never thought I should be glad to see you, but I am. What on earth gave you the brain-wave to come?”

  “Peter will tell you,” answered the other. “What’s that in the corner?”

  “Little Willie,” said Drummond grimly. “And I think he’s going to die. Anyway, we’ll lock him in, so that he can do it in peace. Now we’ve got to move.”

  He bolted the door, and raced up the stairs to the gallery, followed by Longworth.

  “Explanations can wait, chaps,” he cried, as he landed on the ground outside, “though I’m damned glad to see you all. Follow me: we’re going through this house with a fine-tooth comb.”

  He led the way round to the front door, with the others after him. And the first thing that struck him was that there was no car in the drive. So two members of his late audience had gone: what about Demonico?

  The front door was bolted, but half a brick through a nearby window served equally well. And then in a body they poured into the house. The first room Drummond made for was Demonico’s: it was empty. And it was then that Darrell spoke.

  “Three of them – two men and a woman – bolted in a car just after we started to raise Cain,” he remarked.

  “Hell!” said Drummond. Clearly Demonico had got away too. But where were all the others? Room after room they went into: the house was empty. And at last they held a council of war in the hall.

  “Got clear away – the whole bunch,” muttered Drummond, “though the only three who matter are the ones in the car. The others have probably scattered in the grounds. My God!” he cried suddenly, “where’s Standish? I’d forgotten about him.”

  “He’s not in the house, anyway,” said Darrell.

  “Come on, boys,” said Drummond, “though I’m afraid it’s a forlorn hope. If he was all right he’d have joined us.”

  He made for the spot where he had left Standish: there was noone there. But the trampled-down bushes showed that a desperate struggle had taken place.

  “They got him,” cried Drummond savagely, “but what the devil have they done with him? Standish,” he shouted, again and again, but there was no answer; and at last he gave it up.

  “May Heaven help Mr Demonico when I get my hands on him,” he said grimly. “All one can hope for is that the old lad’s not dead. I heard him shout once, but I was in the house and couldn’t get to him.”

  A sudden idea struck him.

  “What sort of a car had they got?”

  “Some sort of big American,” said Jerningham. “And they were going all out down the drive.”

  “Any hope of catching ’em? They’re bound to be making for London.”

  “Doubt it,” said Darrell. “But we might have a chance, if we take your bus.”

  “It’s down the road,” cried Drummond. “Come on; let’s hog it for home and Mother.”

  But the start was too great: no trace of the car they were after was seen. And as they drove into London Drummond slowed down.

  “Tell me, Peter,” he said, “what in the name of fortune brought you and all those warriors on the scene so providentially?”

  “You’ll see when you get to your house, old boy,” answered Darrell, “provided she is still there.”

  Drummond whistled.

  “She! We have a fairy in the place, then.”

  “And some fairy. I’ll leave her to tell you the tale herself. But I’ll explain the rest. About half an hour after I got your message from Epsom, your bloke Denny rang me up to say that a bird was on your doorstep asking for you urgently. So, knowing that you weren’t available, I thought the best thing to do was to toddle round and interview her myself. She told me a long yarn, when she’d made certain that I was to be trusted, lots of which I couldn’t make head or tail of. It mostly concerned Corinne Moxton, the film woman.”

  “Go on,” said Drummond.

  “I didn’t know you even knew her,” continued Darrell, “and I told this girl so. Her name, by the way, is Frensham – Daphne Frensham. However, she was very insistent about it all, and when she began talking about the Old Hall I thought it was time to sit up and take notice. So I roped in the lads and came down.”

  “Good for you, Peter. And I don’t mind telling you, old lad, there is every indication of rare and refreshing times ahead. You told this wench to stop on at my place, did you?”

  “That’s the notion. As a matter of fact she seemed frightened to death. But she’ll put you wise herself, and it’s better for you to hear it first hand.”

  Drummond pulled up outside his front door, and told his chauffeur to take the car to the garage.

  “Who have we got behind?” he demanded. “Great heavens! it’s Algy. Life today has been one thing after another. However, since he’s here I suppose he’d better come in.”

 
“And this from the man whose miserable life I have just saved.” Longworth got out of the car with dignity. “But I have no objection to sinking a pint.”

  Drummond produced his latch-key, but before he could use it the door was opened by his man.

  “All well, Denny?”

  “Yes, sir. The young lady seems quite comfortable.”

  “Good: lead me to her.”

  “There is one thing, sir. About half an hour ago a telephone message came through for you from someone who would not give his name. The message was this. OK Cuckoo.”

  Drummond stared at him for a moment in bewilderment: then light dawned on him.

  “By Jove! Peter,” he cried, rubbing his hands together, “that must be Standish. Can’t be anybody else. I told him at Epsom that I’d arranged to use the word ‘Cuckoo’ with you as a proof that any message was genuine, and no one else but him could possibly know. Was it a trunk call, Denny?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir,” said his servant. “The gentleman just asked who I was, gave that message, and then rang off.”

  “Splendid,” said Drummond. “We’ll larn these birds a thing or two before we’re through with them. Now then – where is the lady?”

  “In the study, sir. I have given her some sandwiches.”

  Drummond flung open the door. Seated in an armchair by the fire, fast asleep, was an extremely pretty girl. Her cheeks were flushed, and a mop of dark curls ran riot above a small, perfect face. She had taken off her hat which lay on the floor, and two silk-shod legs were tucked away underneath her in that mysterious attitude beloved of the female sex. The noise awoke her, and when she saw a complete stranger, for a moment fear shone in her eyes. Then Darrell appeared, and with a little exclamation of embarrassment she sat up.

  “Just like me,” cried Drummond contritely, “to make a fool noise and wake you.”

  “I had no business to fall asleep,” she said. “Is it all right, Mr Darrell?”