by Peter Baron
Within an ace of the last-named place the Vauxhall slowed unaccountably.
As it came to a standstill the Squid leapt from his driving seat and hurried round to the bonnet.
A brief examination showed him the trouble.
Engine seizure.
With a curse he stood aside and pondered.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just after half-past eleven. He frowned and began to pace aimlessly backwards and forwards, to halt eventually and gaze along the road by which he had come. Far away, borne faintly on a violent headwind, came the methodic purr of a slow-traveling car.
That must be the Renault, he reflected, and with a sinister smile he sat down on the dashboard to await its arrival.
It was some time before the carefully driven green car overtook him. It slowed almost at once and pulled up beside the Vauxhall.
A smartly liveried chauffeur descended.
“What’s the trouble, sir?” he asked politely.
“Engine,” answered the Squid. “I don’t know how to handle the damn thing! Perhaps your master would allow you to look over the car?”
He got up with the apparent intention of speaking to the owner.
“You don’t have to ask the guv,” chuckled the chauffeur. “I’m driving alone.”
“All the better,” agreed the Squid smoothly. Covertly he withdrew his hand from his pocket, grasping a pistol.
The chauffeur bent over the Vauxhall’s bonnet inquiringly and with a pleasant smile the Squid swiftly knocked off the man’s hat and brought the butt of the revolver down on his head.
The man sagged over the bonnet and slid to the ground.
Two minutes later the Renault, driven at a pace to which it was totally unaccustomed, was speeding on its way to Cuckfield.
The Squid had little compunction in leaving the Vauxhall. It was not his!
He passed through Chailey and turned off to Lewes, traveling at well over forty miles an hour in places.
Outside Littlington a roadster in front of him, holding persistently to the center of the road, refused to pull over in answer to his screaming siren.
A curious smile wreathed itself around the Squid’s lips. He was in a hurry; furthermore, he was in no mood for dalliance at the whim of another.
An abrupt acceleration—a sudden swerve—the harsh rasp of rending mudguards—a startled shout mingling with the screaming grind of brakes—and an ugly crash.
“Ditched!” murmured the Squid serenely, and the Renault, badly scraped but otherwise undamaged, thundered towards West Dean, leaving the twisted wreck of a once handsome car overturned in the ditch.
Humming softly to himself, the Squid swung into a coast road and headed for Friston. Reaching the little village, the Renault traveled along the cliffs above the Haven, and came to a standstill at the foot of a mound.
On the summit of the mound a low bungalow stood, the chimney wreathing spirals of smoke that broke and whirled in all directions in the heavy winds blowing across the downs.
Stepping out of the car, the Squid stood surveying the bungalow for a moment and beating together his hands, chilled from their long spell at the wheel.
The moon seemed to race across the heavens, ever and anon hidden by clouds. The wind hurled itself furiously around the car, and below the ominous growl of a heavy sea breaking on the shore came to his ears.
No light showed in the bungalow except fitful gleams from the fire occasionally playing on the window.
Apparently satisfied, the Squid took from his pocket a black silk skull cap to which was attached a small mask, so constructed as to leave the wearer’s mouth uncovered. Adjusting it, he made his way slowly and warily up the steep incline to the bungalow.
It was a long low white affair approached by a short flight of steps which led up to a covered veranda.
Reaching the steps, the Squid drew an automatic and came to a standstill before the door.
For some seconds he stood motionless, then he felt for the latch silently. Locating it, he kicked open the door.
Seven pairs of eyes stared at him intently and for the barest fraction of a second his own flickered with a puzzled look. It was gone immediately and, stepping into the room, he closed the door softly behind him.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said courteously, and, stepping to the fire, spread his hands before the blaze.
The masked men inclined their heads politely and waited in silence.
Pocketing his revolver, the Squid cleared his throat.
“Number One,” he said slowly.
A man at the end of the line took a pencil from his pocket and tapped on the wall beside him the word “present.” The Squid waited for a moment and then a curious gleam came into his eyes, to be instantly repressed. Under narrowed lids he took in details of the man’s appearance swiftly and then continued.
“Number Two.”
A second answered with his pencil, and the Squid, waiting for something that was not forthcoming, pondered.
“Numbers Three and Four,” he continued, “are unfortunately not with us. I think you will agree, however, that that is rather more of an advantage than a disadvantage.”
He continued calling out numbers and waiting for the answering signals, and as he listened, his brain worked furiously. His eyes, however, remained expressionless until the conclusion of the ceremony.
At length he spoke.
“I have called you here tonight, gentlemen, for two purposes. Firstly, to announce that we disband at once, and secondly to make a division of the—er—shall we say, royalties accrued?”
His calm eyes swept the gang and slowly rested on each man in turn.
“It was agreed between us, I believe, that I should take fifty per cent, of the proceeds,” he continued, “and that the remaining fifty should be divided among yourselves. If anyone cares to raise objection to this arrangement, I shall be pleased to consider it.”
He paused, and a curious smile played in his eyes.
That his last remark should have amused seven men was natural, but that it should also have amused him was not only unnatural but dangerous.
“No objection?” he asked at length. “Good. Nothing remains but to allot your wages.”
But he seemed in no hurry to do so. Moving away from the fire, he took up his position against the half-open door of the bedroom and, casually producing a cigarette, lit it from a petrol lighter.
He did not return the lighter to his pocket but stood there studying the bluish flame interestedly for some time, conscious of the tense silence and the almost imperceptible narrowing of the circle of men.
At length he reached down with his free hand and pulled the fern from the pot on his right, displacing the top layer of earth as he did so.
The others watched intently, but made no move. Still holding their eyes with his own, he repeated the maneuver with the pot on his left, but this time he dug his hand deeply into the earth, and after a moment’s rummaging withdrew a fair-sized wash-leather bag.
Retaining it, he looked up at the seven masked faces with eyes that gleamed mockingly.
“I always hold a card in reserve, gentlemen,” he said coldly, “to meet any—untoward emergency!”
He toyed casually with his petrol lighter.
“That pot contains gunpowder,” he added grimly, “and the fact that the police force of England must for ever overlook the most obvious is a source of increasing wonder to me.”
A sharp indrawn breath came from one of the seven.
“I suggest,” the Squid continued suavely, “that you remove that mask, Number One, or should I say, Inspector Elveden?”
Silence greeted the remark. A cold, deadly silence.
Then, with a short laugh, the man who had answered as “Number One” removed his mask, revealing the face of Inspector Elveden. The remaining six followed suit.
“The comedy has certainly been played out to its utmost limits,” said Elveden coolly.
“Comedy,” rejoined the Squid s
moothly, “too often becomes tragedy!”
“It does,” snapped Elveden, and his hand came out of his pocket with a pistol in it.
The Squid’s eyes lighted humorously, but he made no move.
It took the Inspector exactly five seconds to discover the reason.
The petrol lighter in the Squid’s hand was held vertically over the flower pot containing the gunpowder.
“Please, for your own sakes, be careful,” warned the Squid, and the circle fell back slowly.
No one spoke. The present ignominious position made speech seem rather futile.
“I take it,” the Squid murmured after a short pause, “that the removal of my unfortunate assistants was greatly facilitated by the use of my mask, which I see in coy retirement behind that chair. I was under the impression that I had successfully hidden that charming little work of art. Apparently I erred.”
Elveden made no reply. He preferred to reserve his energies for the purpose of reversing the tables, rather than waste them needlessly in talk.
“I should like to point out,” continued the Squid, “that whoever coached you with regard to the peculiarities of my little ceremonial did so most inadequately. You certainly learned the method of answer, I expect, from my assistants, but you overlooked a small detail.”
His eyes surveyed the Inspector sardonically.
“Number Two was a tall, big-boned American,” he said, “whereas the man who answered to that number this evening was a small man wearing, furthermore, the clothes of one who answers to Number Eight, and in every case bar one the same error was apparent.”
He eyed the Inspector benevolently.
“Your kind informant also overlooked, or perhaps did not observe, another trivial detail,” the Squid purred. “My assistants when answering the roll always hand me a piece of paper on which is written a letter of the alphabet. The sum total of these letters forms a word. Really, Inspector! So much talented effort frustrated by inattention to details, and detail is so important. It is not the army that vanquishes, but the man who removes the twig from the path of the army.”
He sighed sorrowfully.
Elveden bit his lip angrily and his eyes strayed to the pot of gunpowder. There was little doubt that the Squid was temporarily master of the situation.
“It is interesting to note the law of contrasts,1” resumed the Squid, interpreting the other’s look correctly. “A fall in petrol heralds a rise in the police force!”
Elveden glowered. At the moment he was helpless: he must play for time. From where he stood he knew that he could shoot the Squid easily, but the danger of that petrol lighter was an ever-present one. Did it but fall, seven good men and a scoundrel would be blown to atoms.
The Squid followed his line of reasoning and laughed ironically.
“Had I ever taken you seriously, Inspector,” he continued, “I might have saved myself considerable trouble!” He shrugged. “Unfortunately I err on the humane side, but that is a fault—that can be remedied 1”
His eyes glittered coldly.
“Have the goodness to tell Mr. Leicester and Mr. Craven when you see them again, if you ever see them again—that I shall have a little reckoning to present. I have little doubt that Mr. Leicester initiated you into the rites of the gang, and there again I have only myself to blame. I should have killed that young man while I had the chance. However, better late than never. With respect to Mr. James Craven, he represents a milestone in my life. The only occasion on which I failed to bring about a successful ending of my schemes was due to his interference. Thwarting the Squid is a dangerous pastime and in time I hope to demonstrate exactly how dangerous it is.”
He tossed his cigarette aside.
“Perhaps it is best this way,” he said calmly. “At least I shall not have to divide the fruit of my toils! But you have my sincere sympathy, gentlemen. I am desolated at having to prevent your well-deserved promotion. Nevertheless, I trust that you will shortly rise—in another direction! Furthermore, my dear Inspector, one of these days our long account will be settled in a most satisfactory——”
A lightning leap backwards and a slammed door completed the sentence.
Hastily turning the key in the lock, the Squid shot two iron bolts home and bounded to the center of the inner room.
He reached the small bed as the first attack was launched on the door, and as he wrenched the bed aside a bullet shattered the lock.
The Squid laughed aloud. The bolts would hold for some time yet.
Stooping, he ran his hand over the floor until he found an upraised knot of wood. Then he pressed hard.
Immediately a trap-door swung down with a harsh clatter.
“Charge the door,” Elveden roared from outside, and the police redoubled their efforts frenziedly. With a crash the door burst in and the attackers fell reeling across the threshold.
For a moment the Yard man stared round the empty room and then leapt to the trap-door.
“You stay in the room,” he snapped to one of his men. “These underground passages are like catacombs, and he may give us the slip and return this way. The rest, after me.”
Dropping to a sitting position, he swung his legs over the edge of the hole and felt about. As he had expected, he found a small iron ladder set in the wall of the shaft, and, turning, he began to descend slowly, still giving directions.
“Switch on your torches and pot him if he shows himself,” he called.
Arriving at the bottom, he looked up and signaled the others to follow him. One by one they descended, the man remaining behind throwing the beam of his torch beyond the rest to light the way.
For some seconds he stood listening to the sound of Elveden and his companions moving about in the underground tunnel, and then the uncanny sixth sense that warns a man of danger made him stiffen.
He turned suddenly and walked into a smashing, vicious uppercut that hurled him into the corner of the room. As he fell his head struck the corner of the wardrobe in which the Squid had hidden. He was already unconscious when the other dived at him with the intention of finishing the fight.
Rising to his feet, the Squid hastily stripped a sheet from the bed and within a few seconds had effectually bound the hapless constable.
That done, he strode swiftly to the hall and returned with the pot of gunpowder. Depositing the pot on the floor, he undid his coat and waistcoat and began to unwind the coil of thin, strong twine which encircled his waist and which, on more than one occasion, had proved the solution to awkward difficulties. Within a few seconds he had tied the twine securely round the pot and was lowering the gunpowder into the pit.
With the speed that characterized all his movements he descended the iron ladder, and moving silently along the tunnel deposited the pot about twenty paces from the foot of the ladder.
Ahead of him all was dark, but he could hear the vague and cautious movements of Elveden and his companions.
The situation was not without its humorous side, but he had not the time to enjoy it.
Two more journeys he made to the foot of the shaft and by that time a thin train, terminating in a small mound of powder, was laid between the pot and the foot of the iron ladder.
With a cynical smile he reascended to the bedroom.
Glancing at the constable to assure himself that the man was still hors de combat, he hurried into the hall and, seizing the fire tongs, removed a piece of flaming coal from the fire and returned.
For a moment he held the live coal poised over the mouth of the shaft and then dropped it squarely on the mound of powder.
“Bon voyage, Inspector!” he murmured mockingly, and bounded backwards.
Exactly forty-five seconds later the Squid paused in his headlong flight towards the beach and turned in time to see the whole fabrication of the bungalow rock ominously to the accompaniment of a low rumble.
Smiling evilly, he turned and ran on.
XLI. RECKONING
Free at last! An end to the adventurous life t
hat, of late, had been taking severe toll of him.
The Squid looked with satisfied eyes at the long, slim, rakish launch, drawn up on the beach. The gale had abated in the past few minutes and only a healthy breeze, redolent of the sea, blew in his nostrils.
He turned and looked back at the walls of the cliff, above and beyond which lay the bungalow. His eyes glittered and he inhaled the invigorating air exultantly.
“What ho! Use the jolly old ozone sparingly. We want it again!”
The Squid rounded in a flash, to confront the speaker. And the speaker was Freddie Leicester, lounging indolently in the launch, in which he had lain for an hour. For a few moments neither spoke.
Then: “I was only thinking a few eons ago, old cod,” drawled Freddie, “that it was quite on the cards that we should be knocking into one another sooner or later, you know. Dashed queer, what? I mean to say, the way one thinks. Sort of curious, if you know what I mean—er—you know one sort of thinks, what?”
The Squid’s eyes gleamed maliciously. Placing his feet apart, he studied his vis-à-vis.
“Thinking,” he suggested, “is rather a novel experience for you, isn’t it, Mr. Leicester?”
“Nasty,” said Freddie, “decidedly nasty, but we will let it pass, and by the way call me Freddie—much more matey and all that sort of tosh.”
He lounged to his feet and without removing his right hand from the pistol in his pocket, clambered out of the launch.
Languidly he stifled a yawn.
“By the way,” he drawled, “I wish you’d learn to curb your guilty pash for camouflaging the indicator. I always prefer nature’s handiwork best when unadorned—dear old Erb!”
The dull wash of a white-crested wave striking the rocks was the only sound for a few moments. Then, with a short laugh, the Squid reached up a composed hand and removed the black mask from his face.
Freddie looked unconcernedly at the benign countenance of the Duke of Framlingham.
“I am relieved,” said Erb kindly, “to see that you show hitherto unsuspected signs of brain, Freddie. May I ask how you worked this out unaided?”
Freddie smiled vacantly.
“Some few nights ago,” he answered, “ you came down the drive of a house on Wimbledon Common like a young express. Rash, Erb, very rash. You had left the old waxwork dial behind you. Still more rash. I recognized your aristocratic chivvy at once.”