Contraband

by Dennis Wheatley

  The plane was run out on to the lawn, the lights in the shed switched off, and the two men boarded the machine. The engine roared and spat; then the plane glided forward.

  ‘Come on,’ snapped Gregory. ‘We’ve got to run for it or we’ll lose them.’

  Almost before the plane was in the air Gregory and Wells were sprinting across the soft springy turf behind it. They dived into the belt of trees and stumbled forward tripping and jumping over vaguely seen patches of undergrowth. Then the darkness of the thick leafy branches above blacked out everything.

  Stumbling and cursing they blundered on from side to side between the tree trunks until they reached the meadow, then raced on again, heads down, towards the east gate of the park. Breathless and panting they tore across the field to the spot where Simmons was waiting beside Wells’s plane. The roar of its powerful engine shattered the silent night and Gregory was only settling in his seat as it sailed into the air.

  They knew from the sound of the other machine, before Wells’s engine had been turned on, that it was heading south-westward and took that direction. By the time they were up two hundred feet Gregory was scanning the starry sky with his night glasses.

  ‘Got ’em …’ he shouted down the voice pipe a moment later, ‘… little more to the south. Towards that very bright star low on the horizon.’

  The plane in front was climbing and for a few moments Wells flew on at five hundred feet to make up the distance. Both planes were flying without lights and it was difficult to pick up their quarry, but soon, with the aid of Gregory’s shouted directions, he caught sight of it.

  Five minutes after taking off they picked up the few scat tered lights of late-workers or pleasure parties in Canterbury, upon their right, but after that, flying south-west by south, they passed over a stretch of country containing only small villages, from which the glimmers of light were few and far between at this late hour.

  Another five minutes and on their left they sighted another little glimmering cluster far below them which both knew, from their course, to be Folkestone, After that the country seemed to become blank and lightless; for once they had passed over the Ashford-Folkestone road they were above the low sparsely inhabited lands of the Romney Marshes.

  Wells had climbed to two thousand feet, but the leading plane was just as fast a machine, and flying at a still greater altitude. For three hectic minutes, while Gregory frantically searched the sky with his night glasses, they lost sight of it but, keeping to their course, they flew on over the deserted, lightless, marshlands until a star blacked out for an instant and enabled them to pick up the trail again.

  An intermittent revolving beam showed as a pinpoint miles away to their left, and Gregory knew that they were now opposite the Dungeness light, A moment later Wells shouted to him and pointed downwards straight ahead. Two rows of lights were just visible, forming a ‘T’ in the blackness of the marshes. The other plane was descending towards them and Wells swerved away to the westward in order to avoid being spotted from below. The roar of his engine would, he knew, merge into that of the other plane as long as it remained in the air. He flew on until he was almost over Tenterden, climbing all the time, then turned and came back again to the southeast, climbing still. He was now at five thousand feet when, flying seaward, they passed again the tiny ‘T’ of lights below.

  ‘Got them,’ he yelled to Gregory through the voice pipe.

  ‘But they’ll hear us if we fly lower; and away from the “T” of lights it’s too risky to make a landing,’ Gregory shouted back.

  ‘You’ll make the landing,’ Wells bawled. ‘What’s your parachute for, man! Out you go.’

  ‘Not likely,’ Gregory bawled. ‘Never made a parachute jump in my life—not going to start now. Think I’m going to risk my neck?’

  ‘Dammit, you must,’ yelled the Inspector as he banked, circling still higher, over the secret landing ground. ‘We’ll never find this place in daylight. It’s our one chance to register their base. You’ve got to do it: don’t let me down.’

  Gregory stared over the side of the plane at the little cluster of lights seeming now so infinitely far below. He was no coward in a fight. All his life he had taken a grim delight in facing odds and winning through where battle with other human beings was concerned—but this was different. To jump from the safety of the plane into thin air with the horrible uncertainty as to whether the parachute would open, or if he would be dashed, a bleeding mass of pulp, on to the distant ground. Was the risk worth it? Why the hell should he? And then the heart-shaped face of Sabine came clear before his eyes.

  ‘If I do, will you let Sabine out?’ he cried.

  ‘I can’t. You know I can’t.’ Wells’s voice just reached him above the roar of the engine, angry at this frustration when he was so near securing evidence of real importance.

  ‘You must.’ Gregory’s voice pierced the wind and thunder of the engine; ‘otherwise I won’t play.’

  ‘Will you—if I agree?’ Wells shouted.

  ‘Yes, damn you!’ Gregory screamed back.

  ‘I can’t speak for my superiors,’ bawled Wells.

  Gregory was already fumbling at his back, seeing that the parachute was in position. He stood up uncertainly swaying as the plane soared through the air at 150 miles an hour. ‘You’ve got to let her off,’ he thundered, leaning over Wells’s shoulder, his mouth close to the Inspector’s ear.

  ‘Go on, I’ll do my best,’ Wells turned his face up, shouting, ‘won’t arrest her myself anyhow.’

  Gregory peered over the side again. The thought of leaping into that black immensity of space made his heart contract but he climbed out on to the fuselage. The wind rushed past him tearing at every corner of his garments as though it would strip him naked. For a second there was an awful pain which stabbed him in the pit of the stomach. He felt sick and giddy as he clung on with all his might to prevent the force of the blast ripping his clutching fingers from their precarious hold. Then he took a breath—screwed his face up into a rueful grin—and jumped.

  14

  By the Brown Owl Inn on Romney Marshes

  As Gregory leapt the body of the plane seemed to shoot up like an express lift behind him. He felt himself gripped and twisted as though he was a straw in a tempest; then hurled violently downward. The plane roared away into the darkness above him.

  His last thought before going overboard had been: ‘Mustn’t pull the rip cord until I’m clear of the plane.’ He knew little enough about parachute diving, but he’d heard somewhere, back in the war days, before it became a sport and when it was only undertaken as a dire necessity, that many a stout fellow had come to grief because he’d opened his parachute at the moment of jumping and it had caught in the fuselage of the machine, tearing the fabric and so making it useless or hanging the miserable parachutist.

  He had not realised that in such cases the machine, crippled and often burning from anti-aircraft shell or the enemy’s inflammatory bullets, was falling too and that the wretched pilot might be a moment or more before, dropping with greater speed, he could get any distance from the wreckage; whereas in a normal jump, such as he had just made, he had been torn away from the fast-moving plane in a fraction of a second.

  His fear, that if he had his hand on the rip cord the shock of the jump might open it immediately, had caused him to stretch his arms out sideways so that he could not possibly pull it inadvertently. Now, as he was flung face downwards by the rushing air current, his arms were forced back behind his shoulders and he was hurtling earthwards like a diver who has taken a fancy jump from a springboard, head foremost into the sea. The wind had ceased to turn him but seemed instead to be rushing upwards as he plunged down into the awful void.

  Nearly a mile below him lay the earth; pitch black and terrifying; the friendly trees and inequalities of surface which formed its landscape blotted out by the midnight gloom. Not a light was to be seen in any direction, except the little ‘T’ of flares which now appeared to be so
me way towards his right as he shot earthwards.

  With horrifying rapidity the ‘T’ grew larger. By a stupendous effort he forced his right arm inwards to grab the rip cord. The wind, tearing at his left as at some fin, instantly flung him over on to his back, and then, to his utter horror, he began to spin like a top.

  His fingers were numb from the icy blast of the rushing air. He had an awful moment when he feared that they would no longer have sufficient feeling left in them for him to use them. Cursing himself for a panicky fool he tried to snatch comfort from the thought that plenty of people who did this thing for fun took extra pleasure in waiting until the very last moment before opening their parachute and that he must have a long way yet to drop.

  It seemed an age since he had sprung off the plane; an eternity since he had begun his fight against the up-rushing air to force his hand into the ripcord. At last he found it and, half-choking from relief, jerked it with all his might.

  Nothing happened. He pulled again but the cord was hanging loose now in his hand. Still nothing happened. He made a desperate effort to force his head round so that he could look over his shoulder. The movement flung him out of his spin and he was facing the earth head downwards again. The ‘T’ of flares was much bigger now. It seemed like some fiery group of stars rushing up out of the darkness which would roar past him over his right shoulder with the speed of an express train at any second. But it wouldn’t—he knew that when his right shoulder came level with the flares he would hit the earth. It would be as though some giant, greater than any fabled hero, had flung the whole world at him. He would be broken, burst, shattered into a thousand fragments by that appalling impact.

  Almost sick with horror, he pulled and pulled at the useless rip cord, while he alternately cursed his utter folly in flinging himself to his death and gasped breathless prayers to God to save him.

  Time ceases to exist at such awful moments. He was still plunging downwards at a fantastic speed and had virtually given himself up as finished when, without a second’s warning, his arms were nearly torn from their sockets and a violent jerk at the belt round his middle drove the breath out of his body.

  He had forgotten that a short interval must elapse between releasing the parachute and its opening to its full spread when it would arrest his headlong descent. Now, as that thought flashed into his agonised mind, he could still hardly believe that the safety device had begun to function efficiently the second he had pulled the cord.

  His feet sank down lower than his head and before he knew quite what had happened he was standing upright, swaying a little from side to side, his long legs dangling.

  Almost collapsing with relief he found he could look upwards and saw the dome of the fully opened parachute like a great dark mushroom against the starlit sky above.

  For the first time since leaving the plane he was able to gasp in a full breath and look about him consciously. The ‘T’ of flares towards his right was still larger now but only the blackness of the land below had caused him to think he was so near it.

  The swaying motion increased, until he was covering an arc of about thirty degrees; as if he were the pendulum of some huge clock. He knew he should try to check the movement, otherwise he might make a bad landing, but he did not know how to, not realising that a pair of ropes now dangling one at each side of him were for that purpose. Apart from the fear that he might suddenly be swung into a tree he found the motion rather enjoyable. The lights were now rising gently towards his right, but he did not seem to be coming any nearer to them, and he judged that he would make his landing quite a long way from the smugglers’ secret base.

  As they came low on the horizon it warned him that he was nearing earth and he gathered his muscles taut together, so that as his feet touched he might spring into the air again, in order to reduce the force of the impact. A faint shimmer showed to his left and he realised that it was the reflection of the starlight upon a winding creek of water. Next moment the flares disappeared from view; blotted out by an unseen crest. Then his right foot hit something with a thud and instantly he was sprawling on the ground with every ounce of breath knocked out of his body.

  He clutched wildly at the grass as he felt himself moving still, but sideways now, dragged by the parachute. Bumping over a ditch he was pulled into some low bushes. There was a sharp crackling as the dry twigs snapped and he thrust up his arms to protect his face, then the dragging ceased, for the parachute had sunk to earth.

  For a moment he remained there, bruised and breathless, then he struggled into a sitting position and wriggled out of his harness. Only a dull glow, coming from over a crest of rising ground to the north, now indicated the smugglers’ landing place. He stood up and pulled his big torch from his pocket then cursed aloud as he found that his fall had broken the bulb He had meant to bundle up the expensive parachute and hide it somewhere but time was precious and he dared not waste it fumbling round for something that he could not see. Except for the lighter patch of sky low on the horizon to the northward, caused by the flares and the faint starlight, the whole countryside was shrouded in darkness. Abandoning the parachute he set off towards the north. Only the deeper patches of blackness indicated the taller grass and low bushes when he was almost upon them while there was nothing at all to show the frequent ditches which intersected the marshes.

  Pressing forward warily, he stumbled at almost every step, and was compelled by some obstacle to alter his course every ten yards or so. He thanked his gods at least that it was August. Most of the smaller water courses now had dry beds and the marshland squelched under foot only in the lower places. To have attempted to cross this wild country in winter would have been impossible; he would have been bogged for a certainty.

  As it was, he had to cross two creeks; stagnant, scummy bands of water with muddy bottoms which dragged and sucked at his boots when he floundered through them and thrust his way among the tall knife-like reeds that fringed their banks.

  It was a nightmare journey. Wet to the waist, tired, bruised and angry, he struggled onward; yet the glow from the flares seemed little nearer and the going so difficult he doubted if he had traversed more than half a mile in twenty minutes. Then he came to a wire fence, climbed over, and found a steep grassy bank, up which he crawled on all fours. The top was level; next moment he tripped over a sleeper and came down heavily between two railway lines.

  Picking himself up with renewed curses, he found he could now see the flares some distance away on the far side of the embankment, and turned northwest along it.

  Knowing how quickly the smugglers completed their operations, he began to hurry; fearing that with all the time he had lost plunging into ditches and over tussocks of coarse grass he would be too late to find out what was going on.

  He had barely covered another two hundred yards when he caught the sound of a train puffing up behind him from Dungeness and, jumping off the permanent way, slid down the bank to conceal himself while it passed.

  A short goods train of no more than half a dozen closed wagons rumbled by shaking the embankment. The sparks from its engine and glare of the furnace temporarily lit up a small section of the surrounding country.

  When the train had gone past Gregory stumbled on to the permanent way again and set off after it. To his surprise he saw it pull up ahead of him, opposite the flares, so he broke into a jog trot, spurred on by the thought that his gruelling experiences of the last hour might, after all, have been well worth while.

  Five minutes later he was within fifty yards of the train’s rear wagon and, slipping down the far side of the embankment, he crawled along under its cover still nearer, until he could see by the bright light of the landing flares the business which was proceeding. Beyond the flares were a couple of big planes and the smaller one in which the Limper had arrived from Quex Park. The others had already left and big stacks of boxes at intervals on a level stretch of ground showed where they had unloaded their cargoes. One of the large planes took the air as he watche
d and he was able to see enough of it to recognise it as a 240 h.p. twin-engine de Havilland Dragon, which would normally carry eight passengers, but in their place was capable of transporting about half a ton of cargo.

  From the sound of the engine, as the plane circled in the air, he knew that something of its cruising speed, which should have been 140 m.p.h., had been sacrificed by the appliance of the latest silencing devices, so that the noise of even a fleet of these machines, crossing the coastline at six thousand feet, would barely be noticeable and certainly not sufficient to attract undue attention.

  At the bottom of the embankment he wriggled through the fence and found a dry gully which offered such excellent cover that he determined to risk crawling even nearer; soon he was crouching in it no more than twenty yards from the landing ground.

  About forty men were working with frantic speed unloading the goods train; pitching dozens of wooden boxes from it down the embankment. They had already cleared the first three wagons and, while a number of them attacked the rest, the others went off to the dumps which had been unloaded from the planes, then began to carry the boxes towards the empty wagons.

  For ten minutes Gregory remained a silent spectator of their intense activity. By the end of that time the contraband cargo had all been loaded on to the train, the wagons relocked, the last big plane was gone, and all the flares except one had been put out.

  The train moved off and, rapidly gathering speed, disappeared in the direction of London. The men then flung themselves upon the great higgledy-piggledy pile of boxes which had been thrown out of it, and started to hump them across the landing ground, disappearing into the belt of shadows beyond which the flare did not penetrate.

  ‘What now?’ thought Gregory. ‘My luck’s been in so far and I’m not giving up till I find out what they do with the stuff.’ Crawling back by way of the ditch, he began to make a detour outside the lighted patch of ground and, after going a hundred yards, he stumbled through some low bushes, up a small bank and on to a road. Having crossed it, he slid down the slope on the other side and proceeded to follow the line of the lane, which curved slightly. The flare was some distance away, but he could hear muffled voices carried on the night wind to the front of him and, a moment later, came upon a thick hedge which barred his passage.