The Hand of Fear (Keith Calder Book 3)

by Gerald Verner

  ‘I walked from Covent Garden to here, and that’s all.’ She finished her story with a sigh of relief, and for a moment nobody spoke.

  ‘I think you were very lucky to get away, Miss Thane,’ said Hallick, breaking the silence. ‘Very lucky indeed.’

  ‘I think so, too,’ said the girl. ‘If you’d seen the eyes of that grey man . . .’ She shivered.

  Hallick rose to his feet. ‘I’ll get through to the Godalming police at once,’ he said, ‘and see if they can locate that cottage. Not that I think they’ll find anyone. The birds have flown by now.’

  She smiled wearily. ‘I don’t mind what you do as long as you let me sleep,’ she said, and they left her.

  Hallick hurried off to the Yard, and Farringdon, considerably relieved in his mind, went back to his flat to shave and adjust the discrepancies of his previous hurried toilet. When he had attended to these details he looked up Stanley Holt’s number and telephoned the young American. Holt was delighted at the news and full of questions.

  As briefly as possible, Farringdon repeated the girl’s story, accepted an invitation to dine with him that evening, and rang off.

  It was curious, he thought, as he prepared to make his way to the offices of the Morning Herald, that he still felt a vague uneasiness. Lesley was back, and the attempts of the unknown people to send her the way of Felix Dexon had failed. There should be no cause for the depression which had settled on him and which he could not shake off.

  It is said that civilization has killed the instinct which is every man’s natural heritage. This may be true in most cases, but it was certainly not true so far as Farringdon Street was concerned. His instinct was working overtime and refused to give place to reason.

  Chapter Twenty – The Sniper

  The Godalming police succeeded in locating the cottage which the girl had described without much difficulty. It stood in a narrow lane near the fringe of a wood and was the only house within a mile. Hallick went along to the police station and was received by the superintendent of the Godalming police.

  ‘The place belongs to a Mr. Thorpe,’ said the local man. ‘He’s a city gentleman and he only uses it in the summer. At present he’s on a holiday at Bournemouth with his wife and daughter.’

  ‘How long has he had the cottage?’ asked Hallick.

  The superintendent screwed up his face in an effort of thought. ‘Let me see now,’ he said slowly. ‘Must be getting on for six years.’

  ‘Do you know him well?’ inquired the inspector.

  ‘No, I can’t say as I do,’ was the reply. ‘But I know of him. There was an epidemic of burglaries around these parts last year, and Mr. Thorpe came to ask if we could put a man on to patrol the lane near his house as it was a lonely place and he was a bit nervous. That’s the only time I’ve seen him.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ asked the Scotland Yard man, and the description the superintendent gave disappointed him. Mr. Thorpe was stout and red-faced, rather on the short side.

  ‘A typical city gentleman to look at,’ concluded the superintendent, though what he meant by this Hallick was a little uncertain. It seemed that the people who had kidnapped Lesley Thane had taken advantage of the owner’s absence and used the cottage as a temporary domicile.

  Hallick arranged that a telegram should be sent to Mr. Thorpe at Bournemouth recalling him from his holiday, and in company with the superintendent went up to view the cottage. It was a tiny place set in a small garden that at this time of the year was a blaze of colour, although it showed evidence of lack of attention.

  There were two rooms on the ground floor and a kitchen, and three upstairs. There was no doubt about its being the right place, for in the smallest of the bedrooms they found the pane of glass which the girl had removed from the window in order to escape. As Hallick had expected, the place was deserted, and although they conducted a thorough search they found nothing that offered a clue to its late occupants. There were some dirty cups and saucers in the kitchen and several soiled plates, and the dregs of tea in the cups testified that they had been used recently.

  ‘It’s pretty obvious somebody’s been here,’ grunted the superintendent. ‘I wonder who it could have been?’

  Hallick would have given quite a lot to have been able to answer this question. The thin, grey-haired man whom the girl had described was a mystery. Apparently he was the prime mover behind the whole business, and yet his description fitted no one the inspector had yet come in contact with. As a matter of fact, he rather upset Hallick’s preconceived theories, for he had been convinced that one of the residents of Deneswood Valley was the person they were after. Lew Miller had come to the valley to find Sam Gates and had evidently been under the impression that he would find him there. Was this elderly man with the pale blue eyes Sam Gates? Or wasn’t Sam Gates the presiding genius after all?

  Hallick was completely at sea, and the knowledge did not add to his cheerfulness.

  After completing a search of the cottage without any reward for his diligence, he turned his attention to the garden. It was just possible that there might be something here, but he was none too sanguine. It was a beautiful day with the sun pouring down from a cloudless sky, and by the time he had finished he was both hot and irritable. ‘Absolutely nothing!’ he growled.

  The local superintendent was sympathetic. ‘Pity that girl didn’t come to the station after she got away,’ he said. ‘If she’d come straight to us we might have been in time to catch these fellows.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t, so it’s no use talking about that now,’ grunted the inspector. ‘There’s nothing more we can do here. I’ll see Mr. Thorpe when he comes back, though I doubt if that’s going to help us much. In the meantime you might put a man on to keep an eye on the place —’ He broke off as there came a sharp crack from the depths of the little wood and something whined viciously past his ear. A second and a third bullet followed in rapid succession.

  The local superintendent gave a gasp of surprise and alarm and dragged his companion into the cover of the outhouse. ‘My God!’ he whispered. ‘Somebody’s shootin’ at us from the wood!’

  Even as he spoke, a fourth bullet scarred a white mark on the wall beside them. Hallick’s face was grim. Evidently they had been expected, and somebody had been sent to await their arrival in the little wood that adjoined the cottage.

  The shooting had ceased, but the superintendent was none too certain that it was safe to come out from their temporary shelter. The sniper might still be lurking there, waiting for them to show themselves. He allowed five minutes to pass and then cautiously took a step forward. How right he had been in his conjecture was proved, for he had barely advanced a foot beyond the wall of the outhouse when there came a vicious ‘crack-crack’ and two more bullets sang past his head. He retreated quickly.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve experienced anything like this,’ muttered the superintendent, wiping his moist face.

  ‘It’s not the first time I have,’ growled Hallick, ‘but use has never accustomed me to it. Come on. We’ll go through the cottage and leave by the front. I don’t suppose they’ve got anybody there. If they had they’d have taken a pop at us as we entered.’

  He pushed open the back door and they made their way through the little kitchen and along the passage to the front. Hallick was taking no risks and he opened the door cautiously, ready to spring back at the first sound of a shot. But there was nothing of the sort.

  They came down the paved path and halted in the little lane. ‘You wait here,’ said Hallick. ‘I’m going to see if I can locate that shooter.’

  The superintendent uttered a protest. ‘It’s a bit dangerous, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘He’s armed and you’re not —’

  He addressed the rest of his remark to empty air, for the inspector was already making his way towards the wood. He entered the shadow of the trees cautiously, his senses alert for the slightest sound that would warn him of the whereabouts of the man he was seeking. But beyo
nd the rustle of the leaves as they stirred in the light breeze, he heard nothing. For some time he explored that portion of the wood overlooking the garden of the cottage, but there was nobody there. The sniper had gone.

  He rejoined his uneasy companion at the little gate, and the superintendent made no effort to hide his relief at his return. ‘Did you see anything of him?’ he asked.

  Hallick shook his head. ‘No, not a sign,’ he answered. ‘Come on, we’ll go back to the station.’

  At the station they found a telegram awaiting them in reply to the one that had been sent to Mr. Thorpe. It stated briefly that that gentleman was returning immediately and would reach Godalming at nine o’clock.

  ‘And that’s all we can do for the moment,’ said Hallick. ‘I’m going back to town, but I’ll be along this evening to interview your Mr. Thorpe.’

  He had only been in his office at Scotland Yard about five minutes when Farringdon Street arrived. The reporter listened with interest to his adventures at the cottage. ‘More sensational news to delight the heart of old Ebbs,’ he commented. ‘That fellow’s having the time of his life. He says this case is the answer to every news editor’s prayer since newspapers were invented.’

  ‘And I suppose,’ growled Hallick sarcastically, ‘that if I’d been filled with bullet-holes he’d have given a party!’

  Farringdon chuckled. ‘You’re nearly right,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve never seen him so happy before in my life.’

  The reports from the men who had been stationed at Deneswood Valley were waiting on Hallick’s desk, and he glanced through them. Everything in that salubrious district was apparently quiet, for the reports were brief and entirely negative. The inspector pitched them into a desk-basket and lighted a cigarette.

  ‘I’ve been in the police force for thirty-five years,’ he remarked wearily, ‘but I’ve never struck anything like this business before. Who’s this thin fellow that Miss Thane was talking about?’

  ‘Apparently he’s the King Pippin of the bunch,’ said Farringdon.

  ‘But who is he?’ growled Hallick.

  The reporter shrugged. ‘Ask me,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, I’ve circulated his description throughout the country,’ said the inspector, ‘and unless he’s cleverer than most crooks it shouldn’t be long before we pull him in.’

  Farringdon left him soon after and went down to the Herald offices to write up an account of the latest development for the morning edition. At half past eight he turned into the foyer of the Ritz-Carlton to keep his dinner engagement with Stanley Holt. He was a little late but the young American had not arrived. To Farringdon’s surprise and irritation, he did not put in an appearance at all. The reporter waited from half past eight till half past nine, and then he telephoned through to Holt’s private address. The servant who answered the call had seen nothing of his master since the morning.

  Farringdon ate a solitary dinner in the grill-room, annoyed at the non-appearance of the man he had expected to meet, and never for an instant did it occur to him that Holt had failed to keep the appointment from any other reason than that he had forgotten all about it. Had he been aware of the real reason for the young American’s non-appearance he would not have lingered so long over the meal, but would have dashed post-haste to Deneswood Valley, where at that moment his friend was facing the greatest danger he had ever experienced in his uneventful life.

  Chapter Twenty-One – Holt Meets Trouble

  Stanley Holt was Managing Director of G.I.C. Publicity Services, whose offices occupied a portion of a large block of buildings in the Strand. What the initials G.I.C. stood for, nobody knew. It had been called that when Holt had taken it over — a moribund company whose old-fashioned policy had brought it to the edge of extinction. Under the young American’s dynamic management, however, it had recovered, until now it was one of the few publicity services that really mattered. G.I.C., under Holt’s auspices, had been responsible for boosting ‘Velvet Face Cream, the sex-appeal skin-food’; ‘Rainbow Hair Tonic, the dye with a difference’; ‘Vital, the rejuvenator that defeats time’, and a host of other products.

  On the morning of Lesley Thane’s return he went down to his office after his conversation with Farringdon Street, his mind full of the curious business in which he had become entangled. He had been worried about his little American friend, almost as worried as Farringdon Street, but now that the anxiety concerning her had evaporated, he found his thoughts centring on the girl he had seen during his brief visit to Deneswood valley.

  He had only caught one glimpse of Pamela Earnshaw, but that one glimpse had been sufficient to register her permanently in his mind. He thought she was the loveliest girl he had ever seen, and the vision of her had been all too brief. During the morning he had artists’ drawings to see, copy to pass, and an interview with an important new client who was contemplating a series of advertisements to boost a special brand of cigarettes. But although he attended to his work conscientiously, at the back of his mind he was casting round for an excuse to see this girl again who had attracted him so intensely.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon he made his decision. Ringing for his secretary, he rapidly dictated the letters that had to go out by that evening’s post and waited impatiently while they were typed and brought to him for signature. Then, making the excuse that he had an important conference to attend and would not be back that day, he left the office and went in search of his car.

  It was one of those afternoons in early summer when the call of the open air was insistent. He drove through the crowded streets of London with his whole being aching for the sight of green fields and waving trees. The picture of Deneswood Valley in all its sylvan beauty rose before his eyes, and he hummed a little tune below his breath from the sheer joy of being alive. The hot, paved streets and traffic, the shops and blocks of flats, gave place to tree-lined roads and cool villas set amid gardens of blazing colour. The perfume of roses greeted his nostrils and swept away the artificial scents of the West End, the fumes of petrol and the tarry smell of baking streets.

  He came to the outskirts of Deneswood shortly after half past four, and now that he had reached his objective he was a little disconcerted. The private entrance to the estate loomed up before him and he slowed to a crawl, searching his mind to think of some excuse by which he could make the acquaintance of the girl he had seen on his previous visit. He knew her name was Pamela Earnshaw — so much he had learned from Farringdon Street — but such a meagre knowledge was insufficient to justify him in making a closer acquaintance.

  He brought the car to a stop and lit a cigarette. Now that he was here, he realised how wild and ridiculous had been the sudden urge which had prompted the journey. He had as much hope of seeing the girl as he had of meeting the Archangel Gabriel. The best thing he could do would be to find a comfortable-looking inn, have some tea, and return to London in time to keep his appointment with Farringdon. Although reason told him this was the most sensible course to pursue, he still lingered.

  A stocky, broad-shouldered man who was strolling slowly along the gravel path leading to the estate eyed him suspiciously, and Holt concluded, rightly, that this was one of the plainclothes detectives whom Hallick had left to watch over the residents of the community.

  He had smoked his cigarette to the last inch and was in the point of throwing it away preparatory to driving on when he saw the girl who occupied his thoughts coming towards him. She was carrying two books under her arm, and as she turned out of the private road into the main thoroughfare she glanced at him, and recognition came to her eyes. Acting on an impulse, Holt raised his hat and smiled.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Earnshaw,’ he said. ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?’

  Pamela hesitated. She had recognised both the car and its occupant instantly. ‘It’s rather hot,’ she said, eyeing the bare-headed young man who stood before her approvingly.

  ‘I suppose you’d call it hot in England,’ he said, smiling, ‘
but we shouldn’t think this was hot in the States.’

  ‘You’re American?’ she said, though she had guessed he was from his slight accent, and he nodded.

  ‘It’s a long time since I saw New York,’ he replied, ‘but I’m American all right, born and bred. Can I drive you anywhere?’ He was determined that this heaven-sent meeting should be prolonged if possible.

  She glanced from the car to the books in her hand. ‘I was going down to the library at Deneswood,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’d be glad if you’d drop me there.’

  He had no idea where the library in Deneswood was, but he would have been quite prepared to drive to John o’ Groats if she had suggested it. He opened the door and she stepped in, settling herself in the seat beside the wheel.

  ‘You’ll have to show me the way,’ he said, as he pressed the starter and the engine hummed to life.

  She directed him, and swinging the car round he drove back the way he had come, turning off at the crossroads and taking the secondary road that led to the village of Deneswood, as it was still referred to by the residents of the village, although it had long since outgrown such a description. The High Street, which had once consisted of small, poky shops and labourers’ cottages, had become a broad thoroughfare, lined with more pretentious establishments.

  Outside a branch of W. H. Smith & Sons he brought the car to a stop

  ‘It’s awfully kind of you,’ said Pamela, as she got out. ‘Thank you so much —’ She hesitated, and he realised that she was unaware of his name.

  ‘I’ll wait for you and drive you back,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t bother you to do that,’ said the girl. ‘Besides, I may be some time.’

  ‘I don’t mind how long you are. I’ll wait,’ said Holt determinedly, and she smiled.

  ‘All right then,’ she said. ‘It’s terribly nice of you.’ She disappeared inside the building, and Holt waited, marvelling at the extraordinary luck which had been vouchsafed him. It seemed almost as if his impulse in coming to Deneswood that afternoon had been prompted by a subconscious knowledge that he would realise his hopes.