Knock Out

by Sapper

  They drove on in silence, each busy with their own thoughts. Unbelievable; inconceivable, as she had said; and yet it was true. Right from the beginning she had mentioned Ardington: it was not as if she had not been sure and had thought of it after seeing the account in the paper. Even the time fitted in. It was true. For some diabolical reason the Scotch express had been wrecked, and Corinne Moxton and Pendleton had known it was going to happen and had been spectators.

  “Don’t say anything, Daphne dear,” he said, as they drew up at her flat. “You’ll do no good by speaking too soon. Our only chance is to let them think they’re not suspected. Then we may catch them.”

  He went round to his club, and the first thing that caught his eye was a headline in a later edition of the Evening Mail.

  “Sensational Development in Ardington Disaster

  Evidence of Farm Labourer

  “A sensational development has taken place in the Ardington disaster, where Colonel Mayhew, of the Home Office, has already opened the preliminary investigation. It appears that Mr Herbert was not the only eye-witness of the accident, but that George Streeter, a farm labourer employed at the neighbouring village of Bilsington, also saw it. He states that he was returning after a late dance to the cottage in which he lives, and was walking along the main Towchester road as the train left the cutting. This would mean that he was about two hundred yards from the actual scene of the disaster. And he affirms most positively that just before the engine left the rails, he saw what he describes as a sort of flash right in front of the wheels. Pressed by Colonel Mayhew to be more explicit, he said that it looked like a big yellow spark, and that it happened when the engine was four or five yards away. He heard nothing, but that is not surprising in view of the noise of the train and the direction of the wind. Too much importance should not be attached to his story, though when I interviewed him he struck me as being areliable and unimaginative man. At the same time the possibilities that are opened up, should his statement be correct, are so inconceivably monstrous that it would be well to await further evidence before jumping to any conclusion. That anything in the nature of a bomb outrage should happen in this country seems utterly incredible. Unfortunately, the permanent way is so badly ploughed up for nearly a hundred yards that some considerable time must inevitably elapse before the final examination is concluded.”

  He laid down the paper: there was the proof. Naturally the reporter sounded a note of warning over believing such an incredible thing, but he did not know all the facts. Nobody did except Daphne and himself. And ceaselessly the question hammered at his brain – what ought he to do? Then another one took its place: what had been the object of such an apparently senseless outrage? Surely there was no man living, not even Pendleton, who would have done such a monstrous thing merely to gratify Corinne Moxton’s craving for cruelty and excitement.

  “Hullo! Peter. Seen the latest about the Ardington accident?”

  He looked up: Tim Maguire, a Major in the Royal Engineers, was standing by his chair.

  “You’re a Sapper, Tim,” he said. “How could a thing like that be done?”

  “Easy as falling off a log,” answered Maguire, “if anyone wanted to. You’ve only got to wedge a slab of gun-cotton or any other high explosive up against one of the rails and then fire it by electricity just before the train reaches the spot. By that means you cut the rail. But surely you don’t believe this labourer’s evidence, do you? The thing is preposterous.”

  He strolled away: just so – the thing was preposterous. And that is what everyone else would say if he told them what he knew.

  After a while he left the club, and getting into a taxi he went round to see Bill Leyton. He had ceased to care by now whether he was followed or not: everything, even the bomb outrage at the Falconbridge Arms, seemed to pale into insignificance beside this crowning infamy.

  He found Leyton in, and plunged into the story at once.

  “What ought one to do: that’s what has got to be decided,” he concluded.

  Leyton pushed over the whisky decanter.

  “I think what you told Miss Frensham is right, Darrell,” he said. “I don’t see that you can do anything merely on the strength of what she heard through the keyhole. Besides, it’s pretty obvious that even though they were spectators they were not the actual perpetrators of the crime.”

  “No; but they probably know who they were.”

  “More than likely; but they’re not going to give it away. They will simply say that they haven’t an idea what you are talking about, and that you must be mad. And if you persist, or go to the police, they will run you for libel. You see, all your information is second-hand; that’s the devil of it. We may know that it is true; but so long as Drummond and Standish are unconscious our hands are tied.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Darrell moodily. “Well, are you on for coming down to Bournemouth with me so as to be on the spot the instant we’re wanted?”

  “Sure: I’ll throw some kit into a bag now.”

  And that night found them installed at an hotel in the pine woods, where the average age of the clientele appeared to be in the early eighties. The period of weary waiting had begun. Three times daily did Darrell ring up the nursing-home for news: every evening he got through to Daphne to make sure she was still all right. And with incredible slowness the days dragged by, with No Change the invariable bulletin.

  The papers had unanimously discounted George Streeter’s statement, and since no confirmatory evidence appeared to be forthcoming from the examination of the debris, the Ardington disaster was universally regarded as simply being the most appalling accident of the century. The death roll had been published, and had reached the ghastly total of eighty-four, with seven more not expected to live.

  “And what beats me,” said Darrell, “is that they’re all absolutely unknown people. Hugh, I know, had an idea that there might be some political significance behind these swine’s activities, and it would be within the realms of comprehension if they had wrecked the train to kill one big man, regardless of the others. But there wasn’t a big man on the train: if there had been, and he had escaped, we should have heard all about it. But all these poor devils are just common or garden birds like you and me.”

  “I know,” said Leyton. “That point had occurred to me. And there’s another thing too: if it was a terrorist action done by Communists or people of that sort to further their own ends, it fails in its entire object if the public believe it was only an accident. So surely, by some means or other, without giving themselves away, the men who did it would have let it be known that it was deliberate.

  “Which brings us back to our old starting-point, that the whole thing seems utterly and absolutely senseless.”

  It was Sunday morning, and they were sitting disconsolately in the lounge. Five wasted days, and nothing to show for them. And then, as so often happens, everything changed when they least expected it. A page-boy came up to them with a message that Darrell was wanted on the telephone by the Falconbridge hospital. And a minute later he was back.

  “Hugh’s conscious,” he said briefly. “Let’s get a move on.”

  They were met by the doctor.

  “Captain Drummond came to about an hour ago,” he said, “and is seemingly none the worse for it. But go easy with him.”

  They found Drummond sitting up in bed. He looked pale and drawn, but he grinned cheerfully when he saw them.

  “Hullo! chaps,” he said, “that was a close shave.”

  “How are you feeling, old boy?” cried Darrell.

  “Damned sore,” said Drummond. “And it hurts like hell to laugh. I gather my jaw took the drive first. But I’m still absolutely in the dark as to what happened. All I know is that I was standing by the open window, and there was suddenly a terrific explosion behind me. After that little Willie passed out.”<
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  “There’s a lot to tell you, Hugh, but before I begin I’ve got one question to ask. Did a grey-haired, middle-aged woman come into the sitting-room any time during the evening?”

  Drummond frowned thoughtfully.

  “Now you come to mention it, Peter, one did. Came in, sat down, and when we mildly pointed out it was a private room she apologised profusely and withdrew. Why do you ask?”

  “She’s the girl friend who did it,” said Darrell. “She must have left a bomb behind her. Don’t look so surprised, old man: lots of funny things have taken place since we last met. Do you feel fit to listen?”

  “Fire ahead, boy. I’m fine.”

  He listened in silence whilst Darrell told him everything that had happened: then without a word he got out of bed and rang the bell. He was still shaky on his legs, but on his face was the look of grim determination that Darrell knew well of old.

  “Sister darling,” he said as the nurse came in, “would you bring your baby boy his trousers, please?”

  “But you aren’t going to get up,” she cried aghast.

  “Not only that, my poppet, but I’m going to London. And I feel I shall attract less attention if I’m wearing my trousers.”

  “But it is madness, Captain Drummond,” she said. “I’m sure the doctor will never allow it.”

  Drummond smiled cheerfully as she left the room.

  “Is it wise, old lad?” said Darrell anxiously. “I don’t quite see what you are going to do when you get there.”

  “I am going to have a heart-to-heart talk with Sir Richard Pendleton,” answered Drummond quietly. “And what I’ve got to say to him will give that gentleman to think pretty furiously.”

  “What’s this I hear, Captain Drummond? You say you’re going to London?”

  The doctor had come bustling in.

  “That’s correct, Doc.,” said Drummond. “In a nice fast motor-car. Now, it’s no good saying I mustn’t, my dear fellow, because I’m going – with or without trousers. There are times – and this is one of them – when trifling considerations of health simply do not come into the picture. By the way, how is my fellow sufferer?”

  “Just the same,” answered the doctor. “Well, I suppose I can’t keep you here by force, so you’d better get his clothes, Nurse.”

  “Haven’t got such a thing as a spot of ale about the premises, have you?” said Drummond hopefully, and the doctor laughed.

  “You’re a hopeless case,” he cried. “I’ll see whether there is any.”

  “If only that damn bomb had gone off five minutes later,” said Drummond, as the doctor left the room. “You realise Standish had solved the cipher.”

  “The devil he had,” said Darrell. “That should help.”

  “Unfortunately it doesn’t. He was just going to explain it to me, when up she went. And so until he comes to we’re no better off than we were before. Thank you, light of my eye.”

  “You idiot,” laughed the nurse, putting his clothes on the bed. “And matron is sending up some beer in a minute.”

  “What a woman,” said Drummond. “I like it by the quart. Yes,” he continued as she left the room, “he’d just said to me ‘I’ve got it’ when that blasted bomb burst.”

  “There haven’t been any more messages so far as I know,” said Darrell. “None at any rate that have appeared in the papers.”

  “By the way, Peter, are they watching this hospital?”

  “I don’t know,” said Darrell, “this is the first time we’ve actually been over here: we’ve rung up every day.”

  “The betting is five to one on,” remarked Drummond thoughtfully. “Sister, dear,” he said, as she returned with the beer, “is there a way out by the back?”

  “There is. Why?”

  “Because, darling, I want to use it. I feel tolerably certain that these kindly people in London who take such an interest in my welfare have got someone watching this place.”

  “Funny you should say that. A strange man has been loitering about these last few days. Look – there he is now.”

  “Don’t go to the window, my dear,” said Drummond quickly. “Where is he? I see. Peter, do you spot him? When you and Leyton go, make sure he hears you discuss my condition in voices choked with tears. And, Sister, you pass it around the staff that I had a brief moment of consciousness, and have now become completely gaga again. I want that bird to think I’m still here. Then I’ll join you, Peter, somewhere down the road.”

  “We’ll just have to pop over to Bournemouth and pay the bill,” said Darrell

  “I think I’ll stop on there,” said Leyton. “Ronald may come to just as unexpectedly as Drummond did, in which case I’d like to be close at hand.”

  “Not a bad notion,” remarked Drummond. “And if he does, get in touch with us at once. Now then – are we ready? If so, let’s get a move on.”

  They went downstairs, and ten minutes later Drummond joined them in the car out of sight of the hospital.

  “I don’t think he suspected anything,” said Darrell. “We left him still standing about the place.”

  “Good!” cried Drummond. “Because I have an idea that the sweet Corinne is more likely to be at home if she doesn’t know I’m coming.”

  “I should think that the chances are that she may be genuinely out on a Sunday,” said Leyton.

  “Then I’ll wait till she’s genuinely in,” said Drummond quietly. “And that lantern-jawed swine of a saw-bones.”

  Leaving Leyton in Bournemouth, and stopping on the way for lunch, they reached London at four o’clock, and Drummond went straight to his house.

  “I’d like you to come with me, Peter,” he said, “but I shouldn’t think there is much good arriving before about six.”

  And it was then that Denny gave him Corinne Moxton’s message.

  “I heard about that and forgot to tell you,” said Darrell.

  “Shall we ring her up or not?” remarked Drummond thoughtfully. “Taking everything into account, I think it would be better if we arrived unexpectedly.”

  “Are you all right again, sir?” asked Denny anxiously.

  “Fit as an army mule, old soldier,” said Drummond. “I only feel as if I’d been trodden all over by an elephant. Now, Peter – a slight change of apparel, and then we must decide on what line we are going to take at the interview. Also, I suggest that anything we want we have before we go. She’d probably adore to see someone die of a poisoned drink.”

  At six o’clock they left: point-blank accusation was to be the order of the evening. Only two things had they decided to leave out. The first was any mention of Daphne Frensham, which ruled out the Ardington disaster; the other was the fact that Standish had solved the cipher.

  “He may come to soon, Peter,” said Drummond, “and if so, we don’t want him to have another one to solve. And now is luck going to be in?”

  It was: they found Corinne Moxton and Sir Richard Pendleton in the drawing-room. And the doctor’s violent start and the sudden blanching of the woman’s cheeks under the rougedid not escape Drummond’s notice. But it was only instantaneous: whatever else she might be she was an actress.

  “Why, Captain Drummond,” she said, rising and coming towards him with hand outstretched, “this is bully. I’d heard you’d had an accident.”

  “You heard perfectly correctly, madam,” answered Drummond, folding his arms. “And it is about that accident and one or two other things that Mr Darrell and I have come to talk to you. Moreover, it is very fortunate that Penholder, or whatever his name is, is here. Saves the necessity of sending for him.”

  “What the devil do you mean, sir?” cried the doctor angrily. “You know perfectly well that my name is not Penholder. Are you trying to be gratuitously offensive?”

  “Is it possible
to be offensive to carrion like you?” asked Drummond languidly. “Great pity I didn’t throttle you that night, Penwiper. If I’d known who you were, and one or two other things which I subsequently discovered about your character, I should have done.”

  Sir Richard lit a cigarette with ostentatious deliberation.

  “I saw in the papers, Captain Drummond,” he said, “that you had recently been blown up, and sustained concussion. I can only come to the charitable conclusion that you are still suffering from it.”

  “That you would take that line was fairly obvious from the word ‘go,’” said Drummond. “The spot of bother as far as you are concerned, however, is that I was not suffering from concussion on the night Sanderson was murdered by that engaging individual with the fountain-pen, so ably assisted by Miss Moxton’s admiring plaudits.”

  But this time she was ready, and her laughter was admirably natural.

  “My dear man,” she cried merrily, “you must have been worse than was reported in the papers. Richard, ain’t he cute?”

  “Cute or not cute: sane or not sane,” said Pendleton furiously, “his statement is absolutely monstrous.”

  “Oh! yeah,” Drummond drawled. “Pity I drank beer that night in Standish’s room, isn’t it? You hadn’t doped the beer.”

  For a moment or two there was dead silence.

  “I fear you’re a bit of an ass, Penworthy,” Drummond continued. “How anybody in their senses can employ you as a surgeon, Heaven alone knows. Incidentally, I don’t think many people will by the time I’ve done with you. And your market value, madam, isn’t going to soar through the roof.”

  “Say, Richard, isn’t there some law in this country to prevent this man insulting me?”

  Her voice was shrill with anger.

  “None; until he does it outside these four walls. Then he’ll soon find out one or two truths. I suppose, Captain Drummond, that even you are capable of realising the disgraceful cowardice of coming to a lady’s flat and then advancing these preposterous threats. Why, if you are suffering from these delusions, have you not been to the police?”