Terror Tower

by Gerald Verner

  A little horrified exclamation came from the girl, and he looked towards her.

  ‘That will not apply to you, Miss Heyford,’ he said. ‘When I was making my plans I had not reckoned on your appearance, and therefore some other way will be found to deal with you.’

  ‘Good God!’ cried Shadgold, his face white. ‘Do you mean you’re going to burn us to death? Set fire to the house while we’re tied up like this —’

  ‘Nearly right, but not quite,’ broke in the masked man. ‘I’m going to set fire to the house, yes, but none of you will be tied up when I do so. That would be foolish, since traces might be left for anybody who afterwards came to examine the scene of the holocaust. I have a better scheme than that. My friend, Dr. Grendon, has provided me with a drug which will render you unconscious until everything is over. After it has been administered the cords will be removed and everything will be left as natural as possible.’

  They stared at him as he finished speaking, stunned with the appalling horror of the idea.

  Murley was the first to find his voice.

  ‘You don’t think you can get away with it, do you?’ he croaked hoarsely. ‘Don’t you see that the first thing that will be asked is why did six men sit quietly down and allow themselves to be burnt to death. If the house caught fire in a natural way we should know it soon enough for at least some of us to get away.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Superintendent Hartley, the sweat standing out in little beads on his large forehead, ‘how do you intend to account for my presence? They’ll be expecting me back at the police station at Hythe very shortly and —’

  ‘I have thought of all the possibilities you mention,’ interrupted the man in the mask, ‘and I have taken the necessary precautions to overcome them. A telephone message was put through to Hythe a quarter of an hour ago, purporting to come from you, Superintendent, and stating that you were in the middle of a conference which would probably take a considerable time, and therefore you were staying the night. With regard to Inspector Murley’s objections, the explanation is quite simple. The house will not be fired until one o’clock. At that hour, in the natural course of events, you would reasonably be expected to have gone to bed. That is exactly where you will be.’

  Lowe passed the tip of his tongue over his lips, which were dry and hard.

  The scheme was simple, and yet deadly efficient. If carried out according to plan there was every chance that it would be regarded as a tragic accident.

  The nearest fire-station was at Hythe, and since he guessed that precautions had been taken to destroy any telephonic communications, the fire would have nearly burnt itself out before they could be notified and the first engine arrived.

  The masked man rose to his feet and glanced at his watch.

  ‘It is now,’ he said, ‘ten minutes to eleven. You have two hours and ten minutes to think about it. In the meantime there are certain preparations that have to be carried out. At half-past twelve we shall come back and administer the drug; until then you will be left alone. But I warn you that you can put all thoughts of escape out of your mind. The house is well guarded, with an armed man at every exit. So no one, even if they should get free, would be able to go very far. And this will also prevent any possible help from reaching you from outside.’

  He walked over to the door, paused for a moment on the threshold to give a last look round, and went out, closing it behind him.

  Lowe looked at the helpless figures of his companions. They had a little over an hour and a half to find some means of escape from the appalling fate that awaited them. Unless a miracle happened it looked impossible.

  Chapter Twenty-Five – Ten Seconds

  ‘We seem to be in a pretty nasty position, Mr. Lowe,’ muttered Shadgold, breaking a short silence.

  ‘Very nasty indeed,’ agreed Lowe.

  ‘Do you think there’s any hope of help arriving from outside?’ whispered Jim.

  ‘Quite candidly, I don’t,’ answered the dramatist. ‘The majority of the village is in bed and asleep. Apart from which, there’s a guard around the house. Any stray help that might by a miracle arrive would soon be dealt with.’

  ‘It looks as though we’re for it,’ grunted Inspector Murley. ‘I’d like to have five minutes with that devil in the mask!’

  ‘I’d like ten,’ growled Shadgold. ‘There’s something funny about him. His voice sounds familiar, but I’m hanged if I can place it.’

  ‘I thought that, too,’ said Murley. ‘Probably we’ve had him through our hands at some time or another. By Jove, he can talk, can’t he? He likes to hear the sound of his own voice.’

  The expression on Shadgold’s face changed and he looked across at Trevor Lowe. Before he could say anything more, however, an exclamation from McWraith stopped him.

  ‘I say,’ he said suddenly, ‘I believe I can get my hands free!’

  While they had been talking he had been straining at the cords which bound his wrists, and his enormous strength had succeeded in stretching them until they were almost loose.

  Lowe rolled over towards him.

  ‘Try your best,’ he urged. ‘If you can get free you’ll be able to release us.’

  ‘A lot of good it’ll do if he does,’ grunted Shadgold. ‘We couldn’t get out of the house.’

  ‘All the same, we wouldn’t be helpless,’ said Lowe. ‘Go on, McWraith!’

  The big Scotsman pulled and tugged, and then eventually succeeded in wrenching one hand free.

  ‘Done it!’ he panted, setting to work on the knots at his ankles.

  Five minutes later he was scrambling to his feet with a broad grin.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now I’ll have a shot at you.’

  He came over to Lowe.

  ‘There’s a penknife in my waistcoat pocket,’ said the dramatist. ‘Use that. It’ll be quicker.’

  McWraith searched for it, found it, and opening it, slashed through the cords.

  ‘Now it’s your turn, Jim,’ he said, and he had just succeeded in freeing his friend, when the door opened and ‘Sniffy’ Smith came in.

  ‘The gov’nor thinks I’d better keep an eye on you —’ he began, and then as he saw that three of the prisoners were free, he gave a shout of alarm. ‘’Ere, what’s up?’ he cried, and his hand flew to his pocket, but McWraith in two bounds had reached him, and before he could reach the pistol a pair of huge arms were wrapped round him and he was borne struggling to the floor.

  But his shout had been heard, for even as Lowe and Jim made a dash to the door to shut it there came a rush of feet and the masked man, accompanied by four of the others, burst in.

  ‘Look out!’ he cried; ‘some of them have got free.’

  ‘Come on,’ muttered Lowe in Jim’s ear. ‘Rush them and make for the Tower.’

  His fist shot out as one of the men sprang at him and catching the fellow on the point of the jaw, sent him staggering back against the wall.

  With Jim at his heels, Lowe whisked through the doorway and went racing along towards the kitchen.

  ‘Catch them, you fool!’ cried the masked man, ‘but don’t shoot if you can avoid it.’

  The three men who were with him came pounding along after the fugitives, but Lowe and Jim had taken them so much by surprise that they had a good start.

  They reached the kitchen a couple of yards in advance of their pursuers, and here disaster almost overtook them. The doorway was blocked by a pile of petrol cans, which they only saw when they had almost tumbled over them.

  Without pausing, however, they succeeded in jumping the obstacle, and as they landed two men sprang up and tried to bar their path.

  Jim accounted for one with a vicious swing which caught the man behind the ear, sending him sprawling with a squeak of pain.

  The other leaped at Lowe and tried to grab him by the throat, but the dramatist ducked and butted him full in the stomach.

  He collapsed with a grunt, falling with a loud clatter among the petrol cans
.

  ‘Come on!’ panted Lowe, and ran for the door leading for the Tower.

  It was open, and, racing down the narrow passage, they found themselves a few seconds later in the Tower room.

  ‘Up the stairs!’ jerked the dramatist breathlessly, dragging his torch from his pocket. ‘If we can reach the top of the Tower we ought to keep these people at bay.’

  They went up the narrow stairway three steps at a time, the pursuers at their heels.

  Presently a rush of cool air told them they had almost reached their objective.

  Looking up, they saw the square opening that led out on to the flat roof of the Tower and, with a final spurt, reached it and scrambled through breathlessly.

  ‘Quickly!’ panted Lowe. ‘Help me close the stone.’

  With Jim’s assistance he managed to raise the heavy square stone that covered the exit.

  It fell into place just as the first of their pursuers reached the aperture and, catching him a heavy blow on the head, sent him crashing back into his companions.

  ‘If we stand on the stone,’ said Lowe, ‘it’ll take them some time to shift it.’

  He drew in great gulps of the cool night air.

  ‘We’ve got a moment’s rest anyhow,’ he continued. ‘The question is, how can we make the best use of it?’

  ‘We might escape from the Tower by climbing down the ivy —’ began Jim; but Lowe shook his head.

  ‘It wouldn’t do any good if we did,’ he said. ‘They’ll expect us to do that, and be waiting for us below. While we remain here we’re comparatively safe.’

  Ignoring the battering on the stone slab beneath his feet, he looked around him. The night was dark and clear, and the twinkling light of the Dungeness lighthouse appeared remarkably close.

  Monotonously it flashed, went out, and flashed again. Jim, following the direction of his gaze, watched the light for a moment mechanically, and then suddenly he snatched Lowe’s arm.

  ‘What’s the matter with the lighthouse?’ he whispered.

  ‘Matter with it? What do you mean?’ asked the dramatist.

  Jim looked at the watch on his wrist.

  ‘There used to be ten seconds between each flash,’ he said, ‘and now there’s nearly fifteen.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ve changed the timing,’ said Lowe absently.

  ‘I thought they always kept these things the same,’ muttered Jim; and then: ‘Look, it’s stopped altogether!’

  The light had ceased its intermittent flashing and was now shining steadily.

  ‘It must have been a breakdown,’ muttered Lowe. ‘Probably the mechanism has gone wrong.’

  As the last words left his lips he drew in his breath with a sharp hiss.

  ‘By Jove, I wonder!’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ asked Jim.

  ‘If something’s gone wrong with the lighthouse,’ said Lowe, speaking rapidly, ‘there’ll probably be a look-out man on the gallery. If I could signal with my torch they might send help —’

  ‘Try it!’ broke in Jim excitedly.

  Trevor Lowe drew his torch from his pocket, and at that moment the stone beneath them reared upwards under a sudden onslaught from the other side.

  ‘We shall have to be quick,’ said the dramatist. ‘They’ve augmented their resources below and our combined weight won’t be able to prevent them from getting through for long.’

  He had learnt the Morse code during the war, and now he began to signal as quickly as his memory would allow:

  ‘S O S. POLICE MESSAGE URGENT. S O S. REPLY IF YOU UNDERSTAND ME.’

  He repeated the message again and again, watched eagerly the steadily burning light in the distance.

  But the reply he hoped for did not come.

  ‘The torch may not be powerful enough to carry the distance,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, we may as well keep trying.’

  He began again, and this time he had scarcely repeated the message before a light flashed out faintly from below the brighter star point of the lighthouse’s lamp.

  As it winked unevenly Lowe read the message:

  ‘S O S RECEIVED.’

  Instantly he answered:

  ‘GREYTOWER IN HANDS OF ARMED GANG. NOTIFY POLICE, HYTHE. HELP URGENT.’

  The answering message came almost at once.

  ‘WILL DO AS YOU ASK.’

  ‘They’re notifying Hythe,’ said Lowe, in answer to Jim’s eager-question. ‘If only —’

  That was as far as he got, because the stone on which he and Jim were standing was forced violently upward and they were thrown off their balance.

  They fell heavily to the roof of the Tower, and before they could recover and regain their feet the men who came pouring through the square aperture had thrown themselves upon them and rendered them helpless!

  Chapter Twenty-Six – The Round-Up

  Major Winning was feeling bored and not a little irritable. He had spent the evening at a public dinner in Hythe, which had developed into a succession of apparently endless speeches, and he had been thankful when the whole thing was over.

  Driving along the High Street on his way back home, it occurred to him to call in at the police station and have a word with Superintendent Hartley.

  ‘He’s up at Mr. Winslow’s place, sir,’ said the desk-sergeant. ‘You could get him on the telephone.’

  ‘That’s a good suggestion,’ said the chief constable. ‘Get the number, will you, Sergeant?’

  The sergeant tried and failed. He looked up over the top of the telephone at the impatient chief constable.

  ‘The Exchange say they can’t get no reply, sir, from the Exchange at Stonehurst,’ and then before Winning could reply he went on speaking again into the mouthpiece of the telephone. ‘You’re sure o’ that? What’s wrong then? Oh, I see. All right.’

  He put down the receiver and pushed the phone away from him.

  ‘They say there must be something wrong with the line, sir,’ he announced. ‘They say they can’t make ’em hear at all. They can’t get no ringin’ signal.’

  Then the phone bell rang suddenly.

  ‘Hullo?’ he called, putting the receiver to his ear. ‘Yes, this is Sergeant Butterworth speaking. Eh?’ Winning saw his face change. ‘What’s that?’ There was a long pause and then: ‘’Ere, ’old on a minute,’ said the sergeant, and covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he looked excitedly across at Winning.

  ‘They’ve just rung up ’ere from Dungeness lighthouse,’ he said. ‘They say they’ve just got a message flashed in Morse from the direction of Stonehurst, asking them to communicate with the police. They say the message said: ‘Greytower in ’ands of armed gang; notify police, ’Ythe. ’Elp urgent.’ They seem to think it may be a ’oax.’

  Major Winning uttered a very major-like oath.

  ‘Here, give me the telephone,’ he said, crossing over to the desk and almost snatching the instrument from the sergeant’s hand. ‘Hullo!’ he called. ‘Is that the Dungeness lighthouse? This is the chief constable speaking. Repeat the message you received, will you?’

  He listened while the voice at the other end of the wire repeated the message and explained the circumstances in which it had been picked up.

  ‘Right,’ said Winning. ‘Thank you. You did quite right to notify us. No, I don’t think it’s a hoax at all.’

  He banged down the telephone and turned to the listening sergeant.

  ‘Get on to Ashford, Tenterden and New Romney,’ he ordered, ‘and call out all the reserves. Tell them the men are to be armed, and rushed to the four cross-roads just outside Stonehurst. I’ll be there to meet them. I want every available man that can be spared.’

  ‘You think this thing’s serious, sir —’ began the sergeant.

  ‘I do,’ snapped Winning. ‘I think it’s very serious. Don’t talk. Do what I tell you.’

  The sergeant obeyed and the chief constable paced restlessly up and down, his brows almost meeting with the concentration of his frown.

  It
took the sergeant nearly fifteen minutes to get in touch with all the places that Winning had named. But at the end of the time he looked up with a sigh of relief.

  ‘That’s all right, sir,’ he said. ‘They’ll be leaving almost immediately.’

  ‘Good,’ said Winning. ‘Now, how many men can we muster?’

  The sergeant scratched his head.

  ‘Not more than half a dozen, sir,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Well, they’re better than nothing,’ said the chief constable. ‘When you get hold of the men send them after me.’

  The sergeant nodded, and Winning hurried out of the police station and got into his waiting car.

  There was no traffic about, and he was able to keep up a good speed.

  It was barely fifteen minutes after leaving the police station that he arrived at the cross-roads, and the place was silent and deserted.

  Pulling up, he waited impatiently for the first contingent of the men he had ordered.

  It came three minutes later: a big police car packed tightly with uniformed and plain clothes officials.