Knock Out

by Sapper

  Chapter 9

  They arrived at Falconbridge at ten-thirty, and stopped in the village to ask the way to the hotel.

  “First on the left, sir,” said the local constable, “but if you and the lady are looking for rooms I doubt if you’ll get them there tonight. There’s been a terrible accident not half an hour ago.”

  “What’s that?” cried Darrell, a sudden fear clutching at his heart.

  “Half the hotel blown up,” said the policeman, and paused aggrieved as the car shot away like a mad thing: he was just getting into his stride.

  “What’s happened, Peter?” cried the girl in a frightened voice.

  “God knows, my dear,” he answered grimly. “But we’ll soon find out. Hotels don’t blow up without some good reason. Great Scott! look there.”

  The Falconbridge Arms had just come into sight, and though it was obvious that the policeman had exaggerated, something was clearly amiss. Numbers of men with lanterns were moving about, and by their light it was possible to see a great jagged hole in the wall nearest them.

  “Mind out, sir,” came a warning voice. “The whole of the drive is covered with broken glass.”

  “Is anybody hurt?” cried Darrell anxiously.

  “Two gentlemen, sir, who were in the room where the explosion took place.”

  “Are they dead?”

  He forced the question out and waited, sick with anxiety, for the reply.

  “No, sir, but how they escaped is a miracle. They’re both unconscious.”

  “Stay in the car, dear,” said Darrell, “while I go and make some enquiries. There’s been some devilry here.”

  He made his way through the gaping crowd of curious villagers to the front entrance of the hotel, where a man, who was obviously the manager, was in close conversation with two policemen.

  “Excuse me,” he said, breaking in without apology, “but what are the names of the two injured men?”

  “Captain Drummond and Mr Standish,” answered the manager. “Do you know them?”

  “Intimately,” answered Darrell. “In fact, it was to see them that I have just motored down from London.”

  “Then perhaps you can throw some light on this extraordinary affair,” said the other quickly.

  “First I should like to hear exactly what happened.”

  “I can only tell you what we all heard. It took place about three-quarters of an hour ago. I was in my office, and several people were sitting in the lounge. Suddenly there was a deafening explosion which shook the entire hotel. It came from the private sitting-room which your two friends had. The hall porter at once dashed in to find the whole place blown to pieces. All the windows had gone, and there was a huge hole in the wall. Mr Standish was lying in a corner quite unconscious: Captain Drummond had been hurled clean through the window and was found on the drive outside. May I ask, sir, if they were experimenting with some new form of explosive?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” said Darrell. “Where are they now?”

  “In their bedrooms. The doctor has seen both of them. Ah! here he is.”

  Darrell turned on him eagerly.

  “What news of your patients, Doctor?”

  “This gentleman is a friend of theirs,” explained the manager.

  “They’re both alive,” said the doctor, “though how they escaped being blown to pieces is more than I can tell you. Still more amazing, they don’t seem to have broken anything. Whether they are damaged internally or not I cannot at the moment say. The bigger man of the two, who was found in the drive, is the one who got off lightest. He’s cut his face a bit – probably that hit the gravel first. But I should think that he will recover consciousness before the other.”

  “And how long will it be before he does?” asked Darrell.

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

  “My dear sir, it is impossible to say. Cases have been known where people have remained unconscious for weeks. But luckily for them they are both of them extremely powerful men with magnificent constitutions, and I hope that that will not be so with them. Has anyone got any idea what caused the explosion?”

  “No one,” said the manager. “It must have been some form of bomb, I should think. You’re quite sure, sir” – he turned to Darrell – “that they were not carrying out any experiments?”

  “One can never be quite sure of anything,” said Darrell, “but I think it most unlikely. What I would like to know is, whether they had any visitors tonight.”

  “I’ll send for the hall porter,” said the manager. “Now, Dean,” he went on, as the man arrived, “did any visitor go into Number Three this evening?”

  “Not that I know of, sir,” answered the man. “There ain’t been no one come to the hotel at all except the lady after dinner what took a room.”

  “A lady came after dinner, did she?” said Darrell quietly. “What sort of a lady?”

  “Middle-aged lady, sir, with grey hair.”

  “Is she in the hotel now?”

  “I suppose so, sir: she took a room.”

  “Presumably after that explosion she wouldn’t have remained in it. Is she in the lounge?”

  “What’s the idea, sir?” said the manager.

  “Only that I’d rather like to have a look at her,” answered Darrell.

  “That’s easy. Let’s go inside. Now, Dean, where is the lady?”

  The hall porter looked around: then he shook his head.

  “She’s not in here, sir. Shall I go up to Seventeen and see if she’s there?”

  The manager looked questioningly at Darrell, who nodded.

  “Make some excuse about hot water,” he said to the hall porter. “Now, sir,” he continued to Darrell, “it’s obvious you know something.”

  “Let’s wait until Dean comes back,” said Darrell. “I may be quite wrong.”

  A few minutes later the hall porter returned, looking puzzled.

  “She’s not there, sir. And I’ve made enquiries outside and her car has gone.”

  “What name did she register under?” asked Darrell.

  “We can find that out in the office, sir.”

  They crossed the lounge, and turned up the book. “Eve Matthews: London” was the entry, and the reception clerk supplied some further information.

  “Lady said she was terrified by the explosion and would not stay. So she paid her bill and cleared out.”

  “Well, I may be wrong,” said Darrell, “but I believe that if we could lay our hands on Eve Matthews of London we should catch the perpetrator of this little outrage.”

  “But what on earth was the object of it?” cried the manager. “Had she a grudge against them? Was it a love affair?”

  “I assure you not that,” said Darrell with a grim smile. “No: the reasons behind it are very simple. Captain Drummond and Mr Standish were mixed up in the Sanderson murder case which you must all have read about. And they are not at all popular with the gang of criminals who killed him. This was an effort to put them out of the way.”

  “But we can get hold of this ’ere Mrs Matthews,” put in one of the constables.

  “I doubt it very much,” said Darrell quietly. “She will never be seen again, and even if she is, we’ve got no shadow of proof. No one saw her go into the sitting-room, and the fact that she left the hotel after the explosion means nothing. Many ladies on their own would do the same thing. Hullo! my dear.”

  “I got tired of sitting in the car, Peter,” said Daphne Frensham as she joined them. “How are they?”

  “I’m going up to see them in a moment,” said Darrell. “They’re both unconscious.”

  He drew her away, and they sat down in a corner of the lounge.

  “I’m afraid your fears were justified, darling,” he said in a low
voice. “I haven’t said anything to those warriors, but I’m convinced Mrs Merridick did this. A middle-aged, grey-haired woman calling herself Mrs Matthews arrived here after dinner and left again after the explosion. Said she was too frightened to stay.”

  “Peter – I’ll never forgive myself,” she cried miserably. “What induced me to be such an awful fool?”

  “My dear, you couldn’t help it. It was just one of those unfortunate accidents that might happen to anyone. And they’re not dead: only knocked out. Hugh is not as bad as Ronald, according to the doctor.”

  “Oughtn’t we to tell them about Mrs Merridick?”

  “What’s the good, dear? We’ve not got an atom of proof. We’ve got very strong suspicions but no more. And there’s no use getting a couple of village policemen unduly excited when it can’t do any good. Now you sit here while I go up and look at the two invalids.”

  He found Drummond tossing and moaning on his bed. His face was bandaged up and so was one hand, whilst every now and then he babbled incoherently. Standish lay quite motionless: only his faint breathing proclaimed that he was alive. And it was while he was with him that the doctor came in to say that the ambulance was at the door.

  “They will be far better in hospital,” he said. “In fact, it is essential they should be in a place where they can get skilled nursing.”

  “Far better,” agreed Darrell.

  From other points of view beside nursing, he reflected. When it was found that they were not dead it was more than likely that another attempt would be made to finish them off. And then an idea struck him.

  “Look here, Doctor,” he said, “I’d be very much obliged if you’d do something for me. You said downstairs that you had no idea when they would recover consciousness, didn’t you? Well, I wish you’d pile that on as thick as you can when the reporters begin to get busy. Say that you think it may be a question of weeks. We’re moving in deep waters, and if the bunch who did this show tonight think that even though they’re not dead, they’re safely out of the way for some time, it’ll be healthier for all concerned.”

  The doctor nodded.

  “Certainly,” he said. “And in doing so I shall not be stretching the truth at all. For it is my candid opinion that it will be a question of weeks, certainly in the case of Mr Standish. Are you going to remain here?”

  “For tonight at any rate,” answered Darrell. “And tomorrow morning I’ll come round to the hospital to see how they are.”

  He waited till the two men had been placed in the ambulance; then he rejoined Daphne Frensham in the lounge. A reporter who had arrived on the scene made a bee line for him, but Darrell waved him aside curtly.

  “Look here, dear,” he said, “we’ve got to think what we’re going to do. If, as I believe, it was the woman who called herself Mrs Merridick who did this, one thing is very clear. You can’t go back to Corinne Moxton, for they now know that you’re in touch with Drummond. Further, you won’t be safe in your own flat, for I assume she knows your address.”

  “No she doesn’t, Peter. She’s never asked me and I’ve never told her.”

  “Well, that’s one good thing, anyway. We must chance your being safe there. But about tonight. I suggest that we should take rooms here in the hope that Hugh may recover consciousness tomorrow. Then if he doesn’t, you go back to London and lie low, whilst I get Bill Leyton down here to look after Ronald.”

  “What are you going to do, Peter?”

  “Stay here, darling,” he said promptly. “Or perhaps go to an hotel in Bournemouth. I must be on hand the instant Hugh comes to, because there may be something to be done which he won’t be fit to tackle. And you see, the doctor can’t give me any idea how long he’s likely to remain like this. So I’ll go and book two rooms, and then I vote for a spot of bed. But for Heaven’s sake, my dear, lock your door: with this bunch you never know. I don’t think we’ll have any of ’em down here tonight, but one can’t be sure. Tomorrow, when it’s in all the papers, and they know that Hugh and Ronald aren’t dead, it will be a different matter. And that’s why I think I may go to Bournemouth with Bill Leyton.”

  “Peter,” she cried suddenly. “What about Ardington?”

  “Good Lord!” he said. “I’d forgotten all about it. Anyway, my dear, it’s too late to get there now. We’ll have to let Ardington take care of itself. Now, you pop off to bed: we’ll see what luck we have tomorrow with old Hugh.”

  But they had none, and when they left in the afternoon he was still babbling incoherently.

  “It’s hell,” said Darrell gloomily. “Supposing they have found out something, and don’t come round before it is too late. What’s the matter, dear?”

  For the girl had suddenly laid a hand on his arm.

  “Stop, Peter, and go back to that paper shop.” Her voice was urgent, and he glanced at her curiously. “There was a poster outside, and I’m sure I saw something.”

  He backed the car obediently, and then for a while they both sat staring at the placard in silence.

  Ghastly Train Accident

  at

  Ardington

  Huge Death Roll

  “Get a paper, Peter,” she said in a low voice.

  He bought two copies of the Evening Mail, and handed her one. And in flaming headlines they read the news.

  “Appalling Accident to Express

  Train Leaves Rails When Travelling at

  Sixty Miles an Hour

  Heavy Loss of Life

  “One of the most dreadful railway accidents of modern times occurred last night near the little village of Ardington, which for sheer majesty of horror as a spectacle can only have been equalled by the tragic loss of the ill-fated R101 when she crashed near Beauvais on her maiden trip to India. And a further parallel between the two disasters is that in both cases only one person appears to have seen it actually happen. I have just left the spectator of last night’s accident, and he is still almost dazed by what he saw. He is Mr Herbert, of Plumtree Farm, where he has lived for the last twenty years.

  “‘I had been up all night with a sick cow,’ he told me, ‘and was just leaving her to go back to bed when I heard the express approaching. It was coming through the cutting half a mile away, and I waited to see it pass. After the cutting there is an embankment on a bit of a curve, and the train came roaring round it. And then suddenly it happened. The engine seemed to leap into the air, and rush down the side of the embankment, followed by all the coaches. There was a crash such as I had never heard: everything seemed to pile up in a heap, and then there was silence for a moment or two. But not for long: such a pandemonium of screams and yells broke out as I wouldn’t have believed possible. The lights were still on, though some of the carriages seemed to be telescoped, and I could see the passengers climbing out of windows – those that weren’t dead. It was terrible: I shall never get it out of my head.’

  “So much for the only eye-witness’ account: now for some further details. The train was the night express from Scotland to London. It was travelling at full speed, but, according to the guard, John Harrison of Bexley, who is lying seriously injured in a neighbouring cottage, no faster than usual on that stretch of line. They were up to time, in fact a minute ahead of it, so that the accident took place about 4.15 a.m. And then the inexplicable thing occurred. The wheels of the engine left the rails, and the locomotive, owing to the curve, plunged down the embankment at sixty miles an hour, dragging the heavy train behind it. The driver and fireman were both killed, and up to date there is a death roll of thirty-five with seventy-one injured, several of them very seriously. Unfortunately, these figures by no means represent the total loss. A breakdown gang is at work, but several hours must elapse before some of the coaches can be lifted free of others into which they have been telescoped, and it is a regrettable certainty that when this is done many more casualt
ies will be discovered.

  “I had a talk with Walter Marton, the attendant in the sleeping-car, who, by some miraculous stroke of luck, escaped with nothing worse than a shaking.

  “‘I was sitting in my seat reading,’ he said. ‘She was running as smoothly as usual, when suddenly she gave a terrific lurch, and I got flung into a heap of soiled linen. And the next thing I knew was that the coach was upside down. I climbed out through one of the windows.’

  “And that is one of the things which increases the horror of the spectacle: almost the whole of the train is upside down at the foot of the slope. Only the two rear coaches, one of which was the guard’s van, are still standing on their wheels, and in these no one was killed, though several passengers sustained fractures, and the guard himself was hurled from one end of his van to the other.”

  LATER.

  “The death roll in this ghastly tragedy has now reached forty-nine, and two coaches still remain telescoped. It is feared that the final count will number between sixty and seventy, since no one can possibly be alive in those two carriages. The gruesome task of identifying the victims is being carried out in the little concert hall of Ardington.”

  “But, Peter,” said the girl, and her face was as white as a sheet, “it’s unbelievable; it’s inconceivable. How did they know that this was going to happen?”

  He stared at her.

  “Know it was going to happen,” he repeated foolishly. “They can’t have known an accident was going to happen.”

  “But was it an accident, Peter?”

  “My God!” he muttered. “My God!” And fell silent, still staring at her dazedly.

  “What was the object, Daphne?” he said at length. “What can have been the object? My dear, you must be wrong. It was an accident.”

  “So that was why Parker wasn’t to drive,” she went on, as if he had not spoken. “What are we going to do about it, Peter?”

  “What can we do about it?” he said heavily, as he got back into the car. “A sentence heard through a keyhole isn’t much to go on. Their answer would be a flat denial that the words were ever spoken, or that they ever went there. And it’s impossible to prove that they did.”