The Hand of Fear (Keith Calder Book 3)

by Gerald Verner

  She was gone barely ten minutes, and when she came back he put into words an idea which had occurred to him during her absence. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘are you in a hurry?’ And before she could reply: ‘Suppose we have some tea somewhere? There must be some sort of a hotel near here.’

  ‘There is,’ she said. ‘But really I don’t think I ought to. I don’t know you very well, do I?’ Her eyes were laughing and he took courage.

  ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire, Miss Earnshaw,’ he said. ‘At least if you have tea with me you will know me better.’

  She made up her mind quickly. She liked this good-looking young American whose manners were so unconventional. Liked him all the more because he was unconventional. It was a relief from the rather staid and stodgy people with whom she daily came in contact.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll have tea with you on one condition.’

  ‘I’ll agree to it,’ he said promptly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘That you tell me your name. I really must study the proprieties to that extent.’

  He told her, and she suggested a hotel two miles further along the road where they served tea in the garden.

  It was curious, she thought as they drove along, that she felt more at home with this man than anyone she’d ever met. Although he was in reality a stranger, it seemed to her that she had known him quite a long time.

  They chatted about a variety of subjects over the tea which was brought to them in the rose-decked garden of the Anchor, and she found her companion an interesting conversationalist. He had seen many places and many countries, and his quick observation had noted and memorised the most interesting points of each. The time passed quickly, and it was with a start of surprise that she looked at her watch and discovered that it was nearly half past six.

  ‘I’d no idea it was so late,’ she said. ‘I must be getting back.’

  He beckoned for the bill, paid it, and they strolled towards the car. Tactfully, he had omitted to mention anything about the tragedies that had occurred in Deneswood Valley, and Pamela had not brought the subject up. She stopped him at the entrance to the private road and got out.

  ‘Don’t trouble to come any further,’ she said, and he guessed that she had no wish for the residents of the estate to know where she had been. ‘It was awfully nice of you, and I’ve enjoyed it so much.’

  ‘Then I hope you’ll repeat the dose,’ he said. ‘Let me come and call for you tomorrow —’

  ‘I’ll come out with you again, but not quite so quickly as that,’ she said.

  ‘When?’ he asked boldly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Pamela. ‘Can’t I — can’t I ring you up somewhere?’

  ‘Whenever you like,’ he said, and pulling a wallet from his pocket he gave her a card. ‘Either of those numbers will find me.’

  She stowed it away in her bag. ‘I really must go now,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, and thanks again.’

  He watched her turn into the private road, feeling absurdly elated. It was too early to return to London yet, and he had no wish to do so. He felt more in tune with the peace of the country than the roar and bustle of the city. He decided to explore the neighbourhood a little, and starting the car sent it running smoothly along the road that led past the entrance to the Deneswood Estate.

  After a little while he came to the foot of a slope which rose steeply, lined on one side by the fringe of a thick wood and on the other by gorse-covered common land. He was rather sorry that he had made an appointment to meet Farringdon that evening for dinner. He would have liked to have gone on and on, enjoying to the full the beauty of the summer evening.

  The road curved to the left and he caught a glimpse of the quarry which Farringdon had mentioned as being the place where Felix Dexon had been kept prisoner. A sudden desire to explore it took possession of him, and he glanced at his watch. It was seven o’clock. If he started to return in half an hour or so, he could make it.

  He turned the car and sent it bumping over the strip of common land, bringing it to a halt at the side of a clump of gorse. A few yards away he could see the uneven lip of the quarry and made his way towards it. A few seconds later he was gazing down into the deep pit with its rock-strewn bottom and rusty rails. Away on the other side was the crazy ladder which Inspector Blagdon and the reporter had descended on the morning they had made the discovery of Felix Dexon’s prison. That side of the pit fell sheer, but the place where he was standing was less difficult to negotiate. He decided it would not be very difficult to reach the bottom; a few yards from where he stood the wall sloped at an appreciable angle, and there were jutting pieces of rock that would supply foot- and hand-holds.

  He began to make his way downwards. It was not easy. Twice his feet slipped and he slithered several yards before he could check his fall. Eventually he reached the bottom, dusty but uninjured. From where he now stood he could see the cave-like opening which Farringdon had described, and the walls of the place were dotted with several smaller caves. He set off towards the bigger aperture, and was halfway across the boulder-strewn bed of the quarry when he tripped on a loose stone. He tried to save himself but fell headlong. His forehead came in violent contact with the sharp edge of a jagged rock. A brilliant flash of orange white light burst before his eyes, and then everything went black.

  Chapter Twenty-Two – The Prisoner

  Stanley Holt came to himself with a groan. It was quite dark and the stars were out overhead. His head ached unpleasantly, and it was some seconds before he was able to sit up. He looked at his watch. The illuminated dial showed it was a few minutes after seven, and holding it to his ear he discovered that it had stopped. It must have stopped at the moment he had fallen. Probably the shock was responsible for that. He scrambled to his feet, feeling sick and dizzy, and remembered his appointment with Farringdon. It must be long past half past eight and he wondered what the reporter would be thinking.

  He was in the act of making his way unsteadily towards the place where he had descended into the quarry when he saw a light flash momentarily in the direction of the crazy ladder. He stopped, thinking at first it was a trick of his imagination, and then he saw it again. It came from the floor of the quarry, and it was moving over towards the cave-like opening in the wall. There was no mistaking what it was. It came from a torch, and the rays reflecting back from the stone dimly silhouetted the figure of a man. He was making his way across the uneven bottom of the pit, and Holt caught his breath and crouched to cover behind a stumpy bush. It might be one of the detectives who were on duty in the valley. On the other hand, he might be on the verge of a discovery. It would do no harm to watch and see what the man did.

  The light winked again twice, drawing ever nearer to the arched opening, and presently as the young American watched he saw the man and the torch disappear within.

  Regardless of his throbbing head, Holt set off cautiously in the same direction. It was difficult going, for the floor of the quarry was uneven and filled with huge, irregular masses of rock and stone, and covered with weeds and stunted shrubs, and although the side of the cave looked near it was a great distance in reality. He reached it at length, however, and paused at the mouth of the entrance. There was no sign of the man or the torch, and he approached carefully, entered the dark aperture, and stopped, listening.

  Dead silence greeted his straining ears, and then faintly he thought he heard the sound of a voice — a man’s voice.

  Noiselessly he advanced, feeling his way along the wall. A few yards further the roof dipped, and he had to stoop to avoid bumping his head. The intermittent rumble of the voice still came to his ears, but there was no sign of a light or any other evidence of a human presence.

  Presently he came to a place where the gallery divided into two, and he stopped, wondering which way to take. The voice had ceased, too. Everything was silent. Then as he listened it began again. It came from the left-hand tunnel, and into this he turned. After several yards it widened and then took a
sharp bend to the left.

  As he rounded the bend he saw before him a glimmer of light, and then a little further on he stopped dead and looked in amazement at the sight that met his gaze.

  The passage widened into a big, cave-like chamber hewn out of the rocky hillside. It was so vast that the walls and roof were lost in gloomy darkness. In the centre of this cavern stood the man he had seen crossing the pit, his torch directed on the floor at his feet on an object that was swathed up in rugs. Holt could not see what it was at first, but he was soon to learn. The man with the torch was speaking.

  ‘There’s no harm coming to you if you’re sensible,’ he said in a low voice. ‘If you’re not, well — you know what happened to Dexon.’ He paused significantly and then continued: ‘Now you can eat your food. I expect you’re hungry.’

  He stooped, laid the torch on a nearby boulder, and then fumbling among the blankets straightened himself again. ‘Here you are,’ he said, taking a packet from his pocket and giving it into a hand that was stretched up. ‘Wait a minute and I’ll loosen the gag.’ He bent once more and Holt heard a long sigh. ‘Now eat, and be quick about it,’ said the man. ‘I want to get back.’

  The figure in the blankets stirred and said something in so low a tone that the young American could not catch the words.

  ‘Don’t ask questions!’ snapped the man. ‘I shan’t answer ’em, anyway. Eat your sandwiches and be quick about it. I want to get away, I tell you.’

  Stanley Holt, the pain in his head forgotten, stared in stupefied astonishment. The bundle of rags was a human being, a prisoner. He had stumbled onto something with a vengeance. If he could only wait until the man had gone and release the person who lay on that heap of blankets, he might learn a lot more.

  He tried to get a glimpse of the prisoner, but the other’s figure blotted out the light of the torch and threw a deep shadow across the pile of blankets. There was a long silence while the unknown captive ate the food that had been brought and swallowed something from a flask.

  ‘Now I’ll make you all comfy again,’ remarked the man when the meal was over, ‘and clear off.’

  He bent down and evidently replaced the gag and bound the wrists of his prisoner, for he said: ‘This gag’s only a precaution. You could shout yourself hoarse, but nobody would hear you,’ and Holt caught a glimpse of a rope. ‘Now I’m going,’ said the man, picking up his torch. ‘The next time I come will probably be the last.’

  The young American thought he had better make himself scarce. He did not want to be caught by the other as he came out. He turned and began to creep cautiously back the way he had come, and then disaster overtook him. He kicked a loose stone, and the noise it made sounded deafening in that confined space.

  The man evidently heard it, for from behind came a sharp exclamation. ‘What’s that? Who’s there?’ cried the rasping voice, and before Holt could evade it a beam of light focussed itself on him. He heard a frightened oath, and then the roar of a tremendous explosion. Something like a red-hot iron seared his left temple, and with the thunder of the pistol’s report still echoing in his ears, he pitched forward on his face and lay motionless.

  Chapter Twenty-Three – No Escape

  He recovered consciousness to find himself lying on something remarkably hard, and in total darkness. There was a violent pain in his head, and one side of his face was stiff and uncomfortable. He tried to shift his position, but found that his hands had been bound tightly behind him and that his legs had been treated in a similar manner. A movement of his cramped fingers told him that he was lying on rough stone, and he concluded — rightly, as he discovered later — that he was in the big, cave-like chamber that had been cut out in the wall of the quarry.

  The reason for the stiffness of his face troubled him for a long time, and then the explanation suddenly occurred to him. It was caused by the dried blood from the wound in his head where the bullet had grazed him. He would have given worlds for a drink, for his mouth and throat were parched and hot, and his thirst was in no way diminished by the gag that had been securely knotted about his head.

  The silence of the place was intense. There was not a sound to be heard. A certain gruesome simile occurred to him and made him shiver a little. It was not unlike a tomb, this place — hewn out of the solid ground.

  When the pain in his head had subsided a little, he tested his bonds, but his unknown captor had made a good job of securing him, and he quickly came to the conclusion that there was little hope of loosening them.

  Panting from his exertions, he lay still, gazing into the blackness and trying to concoct some plan of escape. That he was in grave danger he was perfectly aware. Why he had not been killed at once was an extraordinary thing, for this man whom he had seen was undoubtedly connected with the murder of Felix Dexon and the other crimes, if he was not the prime mover in that sinister business.

  Holt had not been able to see his face, but he had no doubt in his mind of that fact. Who the person was who was being kept prisoner he hadn’t the least idea; could not even hazard a conjecture.

  His thoughts turned to Farringdon, and he wondered what the reporter would think of his broken appointment. There was one ray of hope in that. Farringdon Street was a sensible fellow. Probably he would ring up his flat, discover he was not there, and institute further inquiries. The hope was only momentary, however. A second’s thought convinced him how unlikely it was that the reporter would see anything in his absence to worry about. He would probably only conclude that for some reason of his own he had cut the dinner, and think no more about it. A more likely possibility was that someone would discover his car, and the discovery would reach the ears of the police. He became almost optimistic as this thought occurred to him.

  In that pitch darkness time was non-existent. How long he lay staring into nothingness he could not have said, but presently he must have dropped off to sleep. Certainly there was a blank interval which he could not account for. When he awoke it might have been daylight or it might have been midnight for all he knew, and to the thirst had been added an intense hunger.

  He shifted his aching limbs and tried to ease them from the soreness of the hard floor. As he turned over on his side with difficulty he heard a faint movement some distance away from him — a half-sigh, half-groan. It evidently came from his fellow-prisoner, and Holt wondered if by rolling himself over and over he could reach him. If he could he might be able to untie his bonds. It was worth the effort, anyhow.

  He waited until that smothered sound came again, and then judging his direction as best he could, he began laboriously to put his plan into action. The rough floor hurt him, and his face was scratched and raw before he had gone more than a few yards. He set his teeth and stuck doggedly to his task. And then suddenly he was brought up with a thud against solid stone, and his heart sank. He had missed his objective, and either come up against a heap of stones or struck one of the walls of the cave. His disappointment was acute, but as he lay recovering his breath before making a second attempt, his fingers touched something that sent his hopes sky-high once more.

  It was a sharp stone, so sharp that it cut the flesh of his palm, but he did not mind that. If only he could manoeuvre it into such a position that he could rub the cords of his wrist against it, it might be possible to cut through the strands. With a great deal of trouble he managed to get it between his fingers, and by twisting his hands, palms upward, he was able to touch the cords with the edge. It was a long and tedious business, for he could only work for a few seconds at a time, owing to the awkward position in which he had to hold his fingers. The pressure of the cords on his wrists stopped the circulation and numbed his hands so that he had to keep on stopping until it passed off.

  At the end of what he concluded must have been nearly three hours, he had made very little headway. He took a rest and then started again, but to his despair he had barely begun before the stone slipped from his fingers. He groped about frantically, but it was a long time before he cou
ld find it and resume his labours. But he persevered, and at the end of what seemed eternity and was certainly several hours, had succeeded in almost severing one of the stout cords. The perspiration was streaming down his face when the strand gave and he felt the bonds at his wrists go loose.

  With a sigh of relief he pulled the gag from his mouth and worked his stiff and aching jaws, and then set about undoing the ropes at his ankles. At last he was free, but his limbs were numb, and when he attempted to rise to his feet he found that he could not. He set about rubbing them to restore the circulation, and as life came back so did the pain get worse. For nearly ten minutes he writhed in agony as the released blood pumped through his veins. Presently, however, he felt better, and succeeded in getting to his feet. Feeling in his pocket, he found a box of matches and struck one. The feeble glow was lost in that cavernous place, but it gave sufficient light for him to be able to see his way about. He could dimly make out the heap of blankets and the motionless figure of the other prisoner, and with steps that were a trifle unsteady he made his way over to it.

  He had reached the side of the captive when the match burnt down to his fingers and went out. He struck another. He was most anxious to see who this person was, but all that was visible was a heap of blankets. He bent down with the intention of pulling them away, and then:

  ‘Keep quiet and put up your hands!’

  The harsh voice came from the entrance of the cave, and swinging round he saw the figure of a man standing watching him, a long-barrelled pistol held menacingly in his hand. It was the man he had followed across the floor of the quarry.

  Quick as thought he dropped the match, hoping in the sudden darkness that would follow that he would be able to take the newcomer by surprise. But the man was evidently prepared for this move, for almost coincident with the going out of the match flame a shaft of white light sprang from a torch and held Holt in its beam.