“We’ll have a look at your dispositions first, Sergeant,” said Harrison, “and then Metman will be back.”
“Of course, sir,” was the reply. “Whatever you say, sir.”
Rutley’s dispositions, as Harrison had called them, were excellently planned. The ten men he had mentioned were posted at different points behind the hedges, invisible until one was right on top of them, and commanded a complete circle of observation around the memorial. Each reported that nothing had been seen since their watch had started, and Harrison explained that it was essential to continue, but that he would arrange shifts so as to give them all periodical rests.
Halfway up the hill he had noticed, on the side of the hedge away from the memorial, a deep gap above a wide and shallow ditch which was very dry because of the season of the year. This seemed to provide suitable headquarters, and he led his party back to it. Settling down there he saw the man described as Metman by Henry walking back along the road, and dispatched the sergeant, all willingness, to fetch him, with the injunction to keep well behind the hedge and not show himself too much.
Metman squatted down beside Harrison with a cheery greeting, and was immediately asked what he thought he was up to.
“Trailing the trailer,” he answered. “To put it more politely, looking for you.”
“But why look for me here?” demanded Harrison.
“Very discreetly,” said Metman, “in the manner observed among detectives, amateur and professional, I made inquiries in the village. It was not very difficult because everybody was eager to tell me that there were strange goings-on at the War Memorial. So I came here to look for you.”
Harrison looked serious and, turning to the sergeant, said, “Sergeant Rutley, I am more than grateful already for the excellent help you have given me. Now there is one thing more you can do.”
“Of course, sir,” answered the sergeant, delighted at such praise in front of Metman.
“Go back to the village,” said Harrison, “and see that they keep their mouths closed. I don’t want any more gossip with strangers.” Metman smiled. “And I don’t want any Hested people to come along here to see what’s happening. This is a very serious business, and enough damage has been done already. If I see one person coming along this road and he seems to be doing it out of idle curiosity, I am afraid I shall ask you for the explanation.”
“No need for that, sir. You can rely on me.”
The sergeant disappeared along the side of the hedge with exemplary caution and was soon a speck on the road.
“Do you mind telling me what’s up?” asked Metman.
“When you’ve told me why you’re here,” answered Harrison.
“That’s easy,” said Metman. “We’ve had reports in, which show that the man you’re after hasn’t left by air yet.”
“Good,” commented Harrison.
“But he may have been seen in London,” Metman went on.
“Where?”
Metman mentioned an outlying suburb. “I’m not surprised,” said Harrison, while Henry whistled.
“You expected that?” asked Metman.
“I said that I wasn’t surprised.”
“I should think it’s all right,” said Metman. “It’s reported by one of our men who’s pretty good at faces.”
“I should think it’s all right myself,” said Harrison. “I feel justified now, Henry, in asking you to provide the dragon with a pistol to protect Mrs. Cant.”
“I don’t know what it all means, sir,” answered Henry. “But if he was seen in that district, it all fits in.”
“It does, Henry,” said Harrison. “And what else, Metman?”
“Nothing else, sir.”
“Really?” said Harrison. “Not just to keep an eye on me, as well?”
“Maybe,” answered Metman, with a smile.
“Very well,” said Harrison. “Now it may interest you to know that there are ten men posted round this field.”
“Why?”
“Watching that memorial.”
“Again why?”
“To use the sergeant’s words, waiting for something to come up out of the ground.”
Metman was on the point of an exceptionally witty comment on a new method of tending an allotment, but refrained, seeing the grim look on Harrison’s face.
“This place,” Harrison went on, “is honeycombed with caves. Hested is famous for its caves, by the way. The public are allowed to see them during the week-ends and they have their own entrance, but I have reason to believe there are private entrances also, and that one of them is in this field.”
“We could find it with a systematic search,” said Metman.
“Of course,” answered Harrison. “But that would be a long job, and possibly an unnecessary one. To the best of my knowledge one of the men connected with last night’s murder at Redford is at this moment down in those caves.”
“And you’re waiting for him to appear?”
“Exactly,” said Harrison. “Isn’t that the simplest way? That’s why your coming here and showing yourself and leaving the motor-car about may have done irreparable harm. The man may be able to keep an eye on the outside world even if we can’t spot him.”
“I see that,” said Metman, apologetically.
“The result might be that we may have to wait two or three days instead of two or three hours. But there is something else equally important. Although it is extremely unlikely, the other man might take it into his head to come back here himself. It’s the millionth chance, but we can’t neglect it, and your car would be a gentle reminder that the district was getting dangerous.”
“Of course.”
“I’m not blaming you,” went on Harrison, but he got no further, for their attention was immediately absorbed by a motor-car on the road beneath them which was moving at high speed. It stopped suddenly with a grinding of brakes, and proceeded to back behind some bushes in a flat stretch by the side of the road.
“The millionth chance, sir,” said Henry.
“It looks like it,” answered Harrison. “We had better keep well down.”
This injunction seemed hardly necessary, for the figure which jumped out of the motor-car and started to run up the hill towards the memorial, could be seen, even at that distance, to be intent on some errand, looking neither to the right nor the left. His hat was pulled well down over his face, and recognition was not easy.
So satisfied was Harrison with the man’s lack of interest in his surroundings that, signalling Metman to follow him, he slipped through the hedge to find cover behind the nearest bush. Darting from bush to bush, they thus moved almost as quickly towards the memorial, working from the side of the field as the stranger was coming from below.
As the stranger drew near to the memorial, they paused. He then disappeared behind some bushes.
“That must be it,” said Harrison.
“Are we going after him?” asked Metman.
“Did you notice his hand?” asked Harrison, in return.
“Well—”
“Personally, I don’t fancy an automatic at close range in a cave I don’t know. We’ll wait.”
* * *
Meanwhile the stranger, oblivious of everything but the execution of the plan in his mind, was moving with infinite caution towards the ledge leading to the inner cave.
Even as he did so, Clem motioned to Dorice to make no movement.
“What is it?” she whispered, her voice hoarse with the prolonged effort of strained singing.
“That’s him,” announced Clem, gripping his crowbar.
“I can’t hear anything.”
“Now he’ll know whether he can hurt you,” cried Clem, his eyes blazing.
The stranger stood on the other side of the ledge and called, “Goliath, Goliath, I want you.”
Clem let out a terrific yell in reply.
“Be careful, Clem,” cried Dorice. “He may have a gun.”
“I don’t care. Mr. Manners and his guns don’t frighte
n me any more.”
He moved towards the doorway. As his figure appeared, the other took deliberate aim and fired. Clem, however, with catlike speed, had sprung far across the ledge, and the shot went aimlessly past him. It seemed as if he could not possibly keep his balance, falling on his feet on such a narrow spot, but his sureness of foot was even greater than it had been when he arrived. Life some fearful wild ape, he only just landed on his feet when he sprang again, and this time was within a few yards of the other. Frances Manners had stood rooted to the spot. He was holding a torch which made Clem’s gigantic spring even more horrible to watch, throwing as it did an enormous shadow with its bright single beam. Too late he turned to retreat. Clem sprang at him and bore him to the ground.
Dorice had now crept fearfully forth. All she could see was a struggling mass on the other side of the ledge. The torch had fallen from Manners’ hand and was lying on the ground. It was still shining, and occasionally she could see their bodies cross its beam of light as they struggled madly with one another.
Panic had certainly given Manners added strength. To judge by their comparative weight and strength, it would have seemed that he could have no chance while wrestling to the death with Clem. Fighting grimly, however, he held his own. He was the great Frances Manners, and no brute like Goliath could conquer him. Was all his planning and ingenuity to be ended by one who was little more than a brute? He twisted and writhed, and the pair went perilously near the edge of the abyss. More and more laboured became their breathing, and Clem nerved himself for one great effort to hurl Manners over the side. His opponent, however, was quick to realise that in so doing Clem had slightly relaxed his hold. Manners managed to free an arm and struck Clem full in the face with the automatic pistol.
The giant gave a howl of surprise. The shock made him stagger and, in so doing, he had to make every effort to keep his footing and not fall over the edge himself. If this had happened, he would certainly have dragged Manners with him, but his mind contained only one thought, to destroy Manners while saving himself for a blissful future with Dorice.
Now was Manners’ opportunity, and he speedily took it. The giant’s grip was quite slack, and Manners, with a terrific twist, freed himself and ran back the way he had come.
Scratching and tearing at the earth, he scrambled out of the tunnel, to the great surprise of Harrison and Metman. Then he began racing down the hill towards the car.
Men appeared from all sides to head him off, but he was waving his weapon so wildly that Harrison shouted to them to take cover. Even then, however, Manners seemed hardly to see them. As he ran he continually looked back towards the hole, which was now quite visible in the ground.
Harrison turned back to look, too, and clutched Henry’s arm, for there was Clem, rising out of the ground, like some terrible apparition. His eyes were wild, foam was streaked around his mouth, and he was screaming incoherently. As he drew himself out, he seemed even taller than before. The men who were watching could hardly believe their eyes as they looked on this gigantic form. It did not seem human, and they, one and all, stopped in their tracks.
Clem shook himself as if preparing for another spring down the hill, and then Manners turned and, raising his pistol, fired as he ran. This time he made no mistake. Clem crumpled up, half in and half out of the entrance to the cave. But, in turning to fire, Manners had given Metman his chance. The Scotland Yard man had been following at a very unsafe distance, and before Manners could make a further movement he had gripped him by the elbow and the weapon had fallen to the ground.
“Can you cope with him alone?” asked Harrison, coming up. “I want to go into the cave.”
“He won’t give me any trouble,” was the reply.
“Very well,” said Harrison. “You had better take him down to the road and wait for me.”
“Right,” answered Metman. “Come along, my lad.”
The man looked at Harrison and at Metman, and then went with him without saying a word. They were well on their way down the hill by the time Henry and Peary came up with Harrison.
“Who is it?” asked Henry, “Frances Manners?”
“No doubt of it,” answered Harrison.
“What about the girl, sir?” asked Henry.
“I’m going into the cave to have a look,” said Harrison. “Have you the electric torch I told you to bring, Henry?”
“Here it is, sir,” answered Henry, producing from some inner recess a torch of the colossal dimensions used in cinema theatres.
Harrison took the torch and jumped into the tunnel, followed by Henry and Peary. Two or three of the men had lifted Clem, who must have died instantly. When the three reached the ledge, Henry and Peary looked somewhat askance at it, but Harrison went boldly on and they followed. In the middle he stopped and flashed the torch downwards and he thought he made out the reflection of the light on some water a long way below him.
On the other side Harrison plunged into the second tunnel and was soon standing in the entrance of the cave lately occupied by Clem Tarrack and Dorice. He saw the girl sitting on a wooden chair beside a table on which feebly burned an oil lamp. She looked up as if her endurance had reached its limit and taken away all interest in her further fate; but, seeing who it was, she exclaimed excitedly, “Mr. Harrison. What’s happened?”
“Manners has killed Clem,” said Harrison.
“I thought as much,” said Dorice. “I ran back while they were fighting. I couldn’t stand it. I thought you were Manners.” Then she gave a hysterical laugh. “The lamp,” she cried, “the lamp. It’s nearly finished.”
“Pull yourself together, Miss Locket,” said Harrison, sternly. “You mustn’t give way here.”
“But Clem, killed by that beast, he didn’t deserve it. He was so gentle.”
She sat down again and buried her face in her hands.
“We must get out of here as soon as we can,” said Harrison.
“I can’t go across that horrible place again,” cried the girl. “I can’t. I tell you. I can’t.”
“You must,” said Harrison. “I will help you.”
“You will let me hold you?” asked the girl. “You won’t let me fall?”
“Of course not. Come along.”
While the girl grew calmer, Harrison took stock of the surroundings, noticing particularly the bottles and glass. He smelt the latter and passed it to Henry to do the same.
“Methylated, sir,” said Henry.
The girl rose from her seat and took Harrison firmly by the arm. A curious procession thus made its way out of the caves, Henry and Peary treading very gingerly in front while Harrison followed, guiding the clinging girl with infinite care. Even as he crossed the ledge, Harrison wondered what Henry, who was much too occupied with his own safety, would have said of his master’s almost affectionate embrace of the panic-stricken girl beside him.
At the entrance they were helped out by some of the volunteer watchers, who were staring in amazement at the hole in the ground, and they all made their way down to the road where Metman was waiting with his captive.
“Now to introduce you to Frances Manners, Henry,” said Harrison, “whose other name is—” the man turned and glared at them—“Sleet.”
“Mr. Bonnington’s clerk?” exclaimed Peary.
The man glared again, but said nothing.
“We’ll keep an eye on him, Metman,” said Harrison, “while you have a look at his car.”
Metman walked across to do so and, as he looked in the hack, gave a whistle. “There’s someone here,” he cried. “Give me a hand, one of you.”
He pulled a thick rug on one side, and eager helpers assisted him in lifting out, his hands and feet tied and a handkerchief across his mouth, Eric of the red head.
Chapter XXIII
Sleet’s Disappointing Morning
Eric was quickly released from his bonds, but was given no time to explain his surprising appearance, for Harrison suggested to Metman that they should find the worth
y Rutley with all speed and hand their captive over to him in transference to whichever police authority urgently demanded his presence.
“Anything you want to say to me, Sleet?” asked Harrison, as they walked along.
“Not particularly,” answered Sleet. “You win, I know, but it’s a miracle, all the same.”
“It was inevitable,” said Harrison.
“Sounds grand enough,” said the other. “I’ve heard you detectives feel like that about yourselves. Still I didn’t think it was possible. I don’t know how you did it.”
“I could tell you,” said Harrison.
“Go ahead.”
“But it couldn’t be one-sided. You’d have to talk, too.”
“That’s not clever, Harrison,” said Sleet. “You’d give your ears for a confession, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not the police, Sleet,” answered Harrison. “From my point of view I want to verify a few points which I still don’t quite understand.”
“Such as?”
“Coming back here this morning, for example.”
“It was inevitable,” said the other, repeating Harrison’s words with a wry smile.
“Well, here’s another. I can’t fit a suggested marriage to Mrs. Cant into the picture.”
Sleet’s mouth dropped with astonishment. “How in heaven’s name did you know that?” he cried.
“I have never underestimated your intelligence, Sleet,” answered Harrison.
“Meaning that I’ve underestimated yours,” said Sleet.
“Maybe.”
Sleet walked for a while without speaking, and then said, “In a way I don’t see why I shouldn’t talk to you.”
“Good,” commented Harrison.
“But I must think it over,” said Sleet.
“There isn’t much time,” said Harrison. “Better go straight ahead. When we get to the policeman I finish with the case altogether.”
“No, I must have time to think,” answered Sleet. “Police or you, it makes no odds. There’s enough evidence to—against me.”
“I expect so.”
“I know it,” said Sleet, emphatically.
They were now in the village street, and the policeman was coming hurriedly towards them, while various heads could be descried behind cottage windows taking an active interest in the proceedings.
Methylated Murder Page 23