Their field of view had narrowed as they sank and their eyes were now no more than twelve inches above the sand. Facing inshore they could only just see the lower coastline to the south of the bay, where it runs along to Sandwich flats and golf course; while to the north the steep white chalk cliffs reared up, naked and distant. Squirming and twisting they caught glimpses of the sea behind them. It was no longer running out at a great pace for it had almost reached low water level. About two hundred yards away the little wavelets broke with a gentle hissing noise but, from the line of vision of the desperate men, they appeared to have increased to the size of Atlantic rollers, cutting off the view to seaward.
They ceased to shout, conscious that their cries for help were unavailing, and that every ounce of breath was precious in their fight for life. The constant strain upon their muscles was appalling; bent forward from their waists they clawed at the treacherous sand, churning it into liquid silt in their fierce endeavours to hoist themselves out of the horrid ooze that gripped them.
Wells had almost given up; buried to the armpits, his head thrown back, he moved his arms only sufficiently to prevent their submergence as long as possible, while the sweat of the terror of death streamed off his face.
Gregory was still fighting, against his better judgment, as the sands seemed to suck at him more fiercely with each new effort that he made; but he would not surrender life until the last breath was choked out of him by the gritty slime covering his mouth and nose.
It was then, when both men felt all hope was gone, that they heard the muffled drumming of a petrol engine rapidly approaching. Suddenly it ceased and a loud report, like the crack of a small cannon, shattered the silence.
They stopped struggling instantly and wrenched their shoulders round towards the left. Thirty yards away a group of men appeared to be standing knee deep and rocking gently in the sand. From them a long black snake-like rope was whizzing through the air: a life-line fired from a rocket gun. It twisted a moment overhead and then came hurtling downon to the sands between the two almost buried men; the lead disc at its end piercing the morass a good twenty yards beyond them.
With almost unendurable relief they grabbed the rope and held it. The gun was fired again and another life-line hissed through the air above them. Gregory could just reach it as it fell so he left the first for Wells. With their last remnants of strength, fortified by the frantic will to live, they hauled the slack end of the ropes in and coiled them round their bodies, beneath their armpits, by thrusting them through the unresisting sand which had welled up to their shoulders.
‘Ready?’ came a hail from the group by the rocket gun.
‘Heave away,’ shouted Gregory and the strain was taken up upon the ropes.
There followed the most ghastly struggle between the rescuers and those evil sands which were so loth to give up their prey. The imprisoned men thought that their bodies would be torn in half. They moaned in agony as the life-lines gripped them like wire springs about their chests; cutting into their bodies and forcing the breath out of their lungs. They were lying at an angle now, with their heads towards their rescuers, their shoulders only supported by the pulling ropes, their torsos and feet still buried deep in the shifting sands.
For what seemed an eternity they were stretched as though upon a rack, striving with the tired muscles of their legs for even a fraction of movement which would free them, but it seemed that they were too firmly embedded ever to be drawn out.
The struggle lasted for nearly an hour; the treacherous sands pulling and plucking at their victims’ limbs until the very last moment, when they were drawn out and dragged face downwards towards the boat.
Gregory was free ten minutes before Wells. As the life-line drew him over a steep bank of sand he slithered into the water. Then he was hauled aboard a big flat-bottomed speed-boat, where he collapsed on the bottom boards, unconscious.
When he came to Wells was beside him and their rescuers were applying restoratives. Both of them lapsed into unconsciousness again as the speed-boat’s engine began to stutter. With a puff of blue smoke in its wake it roared out to sea.
They were vaguely conscious of being carried up the steps of a stone pier and bundled into a car, then through the side door of an hotel and up the back stairs into bathrooms, where friendly hands relieved them of their sodden sand-loaded garments. Then came the glorious ease of relaxing their exhausted bodies in clear warm water.
Figures moved in a mist about them: skilful fingers tended their hurts, then there came the joy of fresh cool linen about their bruised bodies and a merciful darkness.
It was late afternoon when they were aroused from the deep black slumber which follows intense fatigue, to find themselves in single beds in the same room, with Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust and Superintendent Marrowfat standing beside them.
‘How’re you feeling now, my boy,’ Sir Pellinore inquired, his hand on Gregory’s shoulder.
Gregory gazed round the strange room with a vacant stare. ‘Where—where are we?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Granville Hotel, Ramsgate. By Jove you’ve had a gruelling. Wouldn’t have been in your shoes for a mint of money—but you’re safe out of it all now.’
‘For God’s sake go away and let me sleep again,’ Gregory muttered.
‘Sorry,’ said Superintendent Marrowfat abruptly. ‘We let you lie as long as we dare, but I must have any information you’ve got to give us. Come along, Wells, let’s have your story.’
Gerry Wells moaned as he hoisted himself up against his pillows. His body seemed to be one large burning ache, and he felt that under a pair of strange pyjamas his back and chest were bandaged, although he could still feel the vice-like grip of the life-line round his body.
Slowly and painfully he told his superior of the evil chance that had brought about their capture the night before and of the manner in which they had very nearly lost their lives.
Gregory had been gathering his strength. He looked up at Sir Pellinore. ‘What brought you on the scene so opportunely? If you hadn’t turned up when you did we’d both be fiddling in heaven now—or stoking up the coals.’
Sir Pellinore grinned. ‘No thanks to me, my boy. What women see in you I never could make out, but you’ve got to thank some hidden charm that you’re here in bed in Ramsgate, and not a dozen feet under those ghastly sands by now. Sabine telephoned to me from Quex Park a little after midnight. She said they had caught you both and that Gavin Fortescue had just left for Ash Level. She seemed to know the drill too and gave a pretty good forecast of what they were likely to do with you.’
Gregory frowned. ‘A little after midnight! Why the hell weren’t you there before then! In a fast car you could have made that place in a couple of hours; whereas you took darned near six and very nearly turned up too late into the bargain.’
The fat Superintendent coughed. ‘I’m afraid that’s my fault, Mr. Sallust. Sir Pellinore got on to the Yard at once and they reached me at my home. We were down here by a little before three, so we could have raided that cottage, if we’d wanted to. But this thing’s such a terrible threat to the well-being of the country we’ve just got to get all the threads in our hands before we act. If we’d rushed that place we would have got you out all right, but we’d have been too late to pinch Lord Gavin and, apart from that, we haven’t yet succeeded in getting on to the London organisation.’
A sardonic smile twitched at Gregory’s thin lips. ‘So you took a chance.…’
The Superintendent laughed. ‘Not a very big one. We knew they wouldn’t shoot you unless you did something stupid. The lady made it quite clear about the way they’d bump you off. You didn’t know, of course, but there were some of my chaps within a stone’s throw of that cottage from three o’clock on, with orders to rush it if anything went wrong. Meantime Sir Pellinore and I went off into Ramsgate and fixed a boat all ready with life-lines; so as to get you out after they’d done their stuff.’
‘But what the hell did you want to wait till t
he last minute for?’ Gregory snapped. ‘Apart from what we went through you were darned nearly too late to get us out at all.’
‘It wasn’t quite as bad as that, sir. We were in our boat by half-past four, lying concealed under the cliffs to the north of the bay with our night glasses out, all ready for the performance. Then their boat came down the channel and they chucked you overboard. We could have reached you within two minutes but we wanted to wait, if it were possible, until they’d gone back up the creek and couldn’t spot us and guess we were on to their little game. Our scheme went like clockwork. They think you’re dead and that they’re safe as houses; so no alarm will have been given. You’re out of it and we’ll be able to pull them in just when we wish.’
Gregory nodded. ‘Good staff work, I suppose, but devilish hard on the nerves.’
‘Maybe, but did you get anything? That’s what I had to wake you up to know.’
‘I did,’ said Wells with new enthusiasm. ‘I managed to spot the address on that case before they grabbed me. Mitbloom & Allison, 43, Barter Street, E.1.’
‘Good boy,’ the Superintendent chuckled into his double chin. ‘I’m leaving for London now and we’ll take a look over the place tonight. The doctor tells me there’s no damage done to either of you; although you’ll be a bit sore in the ribs for the next few days. You’d both better take it easy, I’m thinking, while I get on with the job.’
Gerry Wells sat up, suppressed a groan, and said: ‘Half a minute, sir. This is my pigeon. Surely you’re not going to do me out of it; just because I took a chance on getting caught last night.’
‘I don’t want to do you out of anything if you’re fit to carry on, but the doctors seem to think you ought to rest up for a day or two, at least.’
‘I’ll be all right, sir. I’ve no bones broken. It’s only a bit painful where the ropes cut into the skin on my chest and back when you pulled me out. What time d’you mean to raid Mitbloom & Allison?’
‘I shan’t raid it. That would give the game away. I shall have a search warrant made out, and pray to God I won’t be called on to show it, then pay the place an unofficial visit sometime in the early hours tomorrow morning. I’ll find out in the meantime if they keep a night watchman. If they do I’ll think up some scheme to get him out of the way for a bit. Then we can go in and have a snoop round without anyone being any the wiser.’
‘If I caught the last train up then I could be in on it—couldn’t I, sir?’ Gerry Wells pleaded.
The Superintendent nodded. ‘Certainly if you’re fit. Best stay here for a bit though and see how you feel this evening.’
Gregory eased himself over on to his tummy. ‘We’ll be with you. Old soldiers never die. Just order some dinner for us and a car to take us to the station; both items on Sir Pellinore’s account. He owes us that for his day at the seaside.’
The doctor, who had been warned to attend again when the patients were woken, was summoned. He said that there was no danger in their getting up and only advised against it owing to the pain which must result from their bruised muscles. Where the ropes had cut into them he dressed the broken skin with soothing ointment and fresh bandages. When he had finished Superintendent Marrowfat and Sir Pellinore left them, to return to London, while the two patients turned over to doze and rest.
At eight o’clock the manager of the hotel called them in person, inquired most kindly after their health, and superintended the preparations for an excellent meal ordered by Sir Pellinore, to be served in their room.
They both felt terribly stiff, but apart from that, and the soreness under their arms, perfectly fit and well again after their thirteen hours in bed. Dressing proved a painful operation, but once it was accomplished and they had been heartened by a good dinner, washed down with a fine bottle of Burgundy, they felt as keen as ever. A car was waiting for them when they came downstairs and they caught the 9.28 to London; arriving at Charing Cross two minutes before midnight.
At the Yard all preparations for the secret raid had been completed. Mitbloom & Allison proved to be a firm of wholesale tobacco merchants. Their warehouse, so the Superintendent had ascertained, was fitted with electric burglar alarms but they did not employ a night watchman. Arrangements had been made for the electric current to be cut off at the main between the hours of one and three so that the police would be able to make an entry without the alarm going off and, unless they were very unfortunate, no one would suspect on the following day that the place had been searched in the early hours of the morning.
The Superintendent, Gregory, Gerry Wells, a lock expert from the special department, and another detective, squeezed themselves in one of the bigger Flying Squad cars at a quarter to one, and the driver turned its nose eastward.
They ran down the Strand which was still fairly busy with traffic passing to and from the great restaurants; Fleet Street, now given over to swift-moving newspaper vans lining up to collect and distribute the early copies of the great national dailies; then up Ludgate Hill and through Queen Victoria Street, strangely silent and deserted compared with the swarming thousands who throng those great business areas in the day time. Passing the Bank of England, they sped on to Liverpool Street, then turned right, into that maze of thoroughfares into which the wealthier population of London and the suburbs so rarely penetrate.
Barter Street proved to be a dark canyon between high brick buildings. It contained no residential houses and was given over entirely to tall warehouses; some of which had dusty-looking old-fashioned offices on the ground floor. Dustbins lined the pavements; a solitary cat minced its way forward in leisurely manner across the street upon its nightly prowl.
They parked the car at the end of the street leaving the driver with it. A city policeman touched his helmet to the Superintendent, having been warned of their visit, and remained on the corner to keep watch while the others made their way along the narrow pavement to number forty-three.
Grimy window panes stared at them blankly from the street level; above, the big hook and ball of a crane for hauling merchandise to the upper floors dangled over their heads. The Superintendent looked at his watch.
‘Five past one. Go ahead, Jim,’ he said.
The lock expert produced a bag of tools and, selecting one, started work on the door. ‘Lock’s easy enough,’ he murmured. ‘Old-fashioned piece.’ With a twist of his wrist it clicked back into its socket.
Pushing the door open the five men entered the building. The Superintendent switched on his torch. It showed a dusty hallway with a flight of stone steps leading to the upper floors and, on their left, two glass-panelled swing doors giving on to the offices. Thrusting them wide the fat Superintendent led the way in.
The beam of his torch, as he flashed it round, showed shelves with rows of faded letter files upon them; an old-fashioned clerk’s desk, with high stools in front of it, and a rusty brass rail which carried a number of leather-bound ledgers. The place had the odour of dreary old-fashioned commercialism where men toiled half their lives in a perpetual twilight for a pittance. Another door with a frosted-glass panel, upon which was painted ‘Private’ in black letters, showed to the right. The Superintendent walked over and tried its handle. The lock expert set to work again and soon had it open.
The inner office was little better than the one they had just glanced over. It gave on to a deep well, and was lit in the day time only by glass reflectors swung on chains at an angle to the windows. A few faded photographs of elderly side-whiskered gentlemen, probably long-dead directors of the firm, were hung upon the whitewashed walls above a skirting of pitch pine. A rolltop desk occupied a corner near the window; a meagre square of turkey carpet failed to conceal all but a small portion of the worn oilcloth with which the floor was covered. An open bookcase contained piles of old trade journals, samples, and miscellaneous paraphernalia.
‘We’ll come back here later,’ said the Superintendent. ‘First I want to see the contents of the warehouse.’
They trooped out be
hind him and up the stone stairs to the first floor. It was an empty barn-like room; containing only several stacks of cases. The Superintendent pointed: Wells and the extra detective pulled one out from the middle of a stack and, by means of a jemmy which the lock man produced from his bag of tools, opened it up. It was a longish coffin-shaped case and contained tins of leaf tobacco.
They hammered back the nails carefully, so that it should not appear to have been opened, and replaced it in the centre of the stack.
The contents of four other cases were investigated from different portions of the room and the Superintendent noted down particulars of the goods they contained in his pocket book. Then they visited the upper floor and the same process was gone through with other consignments of merchandise which they found there. The top floor and the one below it were empty.
‘We’ll get down to the offices now,’ the Superintendent said and, with an elephantine tread, led the way downstairs again.
They all had torches and began a rapid search through the clerks’ desks and papers. It was impossible to examine them all in so short a time but the police officers made various notes of invoices, addresses, and dates of correspondence, without coming across a single item which tied up the place with its illegal source of supply.
Gregory wandered into the inner room. If there were any, it was there, he felt certain, that important papers would be kept.
Gregory stared round the place, scrutinising the photographs upon the grey-white walls and the miscellaneous collection of samples and trade papers, hoping for inspiration. Then his eye fell upon the lower shelf of the bookcase.
Half-buried under stacks of dusty documents there were a long row of books. He bent down and flashed his torch on them. It was a set of Shakespeare’s works in forty volumes. As a book collector himself he knew it well. It had been published by an American company, just after the war, and remained at an exceptionally low price. The volumes were bound in grey boards with a strip of blue cloth down their spines on which were paper labels. Each contained one of Shakespeare’s thirty-seven plays, except the last three, which were devoted to the sonnets and poems.
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