He gave his hand to the girl though it was unnecessary and helped her to her feet and they walked out of the park together. Her little Mercedes was unattended and he cranked it up for her.
“Good-bye, Michael,” she said.
“Au revoir,” said Michael, “we shall meet at the sessions.”
At two o’clock that afternoon a constable on duty in Moorgate Street heard the first of the two explosions which agitated police circles that day. Michael was on the spot half-an-hour later and his brief examination led to the view which he afterwards communicated to Ralph. It was then he discovered that what the girl had told him was true and that both Lord Flanborough and Sir Ralph Sapson were out of town. Curiously enough, though he had been impressed at the time, he had dismissed the girl’s statement as a piece of bravado on a par with the badinage in which she usually indulged. He had cursed his folly in ignoring the warning, all the way from Baker Street to the city and it was a great relief to discover what was evident, that no attempt had been made to rifle either the safe in Bartholomew Close or the strong room in Moorgate Street. The outrages were similar in character; in both cases the steel doors had been burst open by the application of an infernal machine. In neither case had the thieves benefited by their crime. The constable who heard the first explosion said he had been admitted by the caretaker of the building within three minutes but in that time had managed to send another policeman, who came up, to guard the back of the premises. Nobody had either entered or left in that period.
The explosion in Bartholomew Close had blown a sky-light into the street. The safe was in a concrete cellar in which a light had been burning day and night and although this had been extinguished by the force of the explosion, it was possible for the constable who was outside to see the safe and obtain a fairly comprehensive view of the chamber. He, too, had asserted that nobody had entered the room or left the building after the explosion.
“It is very curious,” said Michael.
T.B. Smith had come at his urgent request and the chief was as puzzled as his subordinate.
“Did Flanborough say he would come up?”
“He is on his way now,” replied Michael.
“Do you know what I think?” said T.B. after a moment’s thought. “I think that this is a blind. That there was never any intention of rifling either the strong room or the safe. There is a big move on somewhere, Mike, call in all the reserves.”
This was an order which Michael heard with pleasure, for he had already anticipated these instructions, and detectives were at that moment flocking to Scotland Yard from every point of the compass.
CHAPTER XII.
A MOTOR CAR WAS MET BY A SPECIAL
TRAIN
Whatever distress animated the bosoms of humanity on that fateful Sunday afternoon and evening there were two people riotously and supremely happy, though the car which Alphonso Blaxton drove was an old one and badly sprung and though every hill it met reduced the two young adventurers to breathless apprehension for the car had a trick of stopping with its goal in sight and refusing to budge any farther.
They were happy though no word of love had been spoken between them from the moment she had drawn from his arms. And their happiness was such that even a faulty cylinder and a choked carburettor were matters of little moment.
They had eaten a very bad luncheon in Maidstone without noticing the fact. They had encountered perils innumerable (the steering gear had gone wrong and temporary repairs had to be effected without the aid of a tool chest) and were yet cheerful. They had been bumped and shaken and jarred but they had had compensation. They had seen the uprising ridges of the Kentish Rag green and white and starred with flowers. They had looked through a golden haze across mysterious valleys. They had heard the songs of birds and had tasted the joys which come only to those who love youth and young things.
If the clouds were banking up in the west and an occasional puff of cold wind came to remind them of May’s treachery they, for their part, saw no cloud in their sky, felt no chill winds in their rosy world.
They reached the top of a particularly trying hill and Alphonso stopped the car and got down. Before them the road dipped straightly down to a level crossing. A mile beyond the railway there was a little hill which promised no distress of mind.
“Wouldn’t this be a lovely place to paint!” said the girl.
“Don’t let’s talk about art,” he begged with a wry face, “let us talk of beautiful things—such as tea and shrimps.”
She shrieked with merriment at his feeble jest.
“I wonder what is going to happen,” said the girl becoming grave.
“Happen, how, where?” he asked in surprise.
“About us,” she said.
He took her two hands in his.
“I am going to be tremendously rich.”
“Did I tell you I was engaged?” she asked timidly after a long silence.
It was nothing less than an act of heroism for her to ask this question.
“I have a dim idea you said something about it a long time ago,” he said.
“Did I really?” she asked relieved. “I had a feeling—”
“If you didn’t tell me I saw your ring,” he said and she went red because she had removed that ring after their second meeting and had never worn it again.
“I think I have told you that I had £300 a year,” he went on; “now that we are confessing our handicaps I might as well own up to mine.”
“You told me you were absolutely penniless,” she said severely. “£300 a year is a fortune.”
“£300 a year is only a fortune to the immensely rich, to the poor it is worse than poverty.”
“You can do a lot with £300 a year,” she said thoughtfully, “and what shall I do with my money? I can’t throw it away.”
“You will do nothing with it,” he said firmly; “when my £300 a year has become £10,000 a year we can do things.”
She laughed happily, twisting his watch guard round her finger.
“I cannot understand myself,” she said. “I have been such a selfish mercenary pig. I didn’t know there was any happiness in the world.”
For the second time that day he slipped his arm around her, raised her face to his and kissed her.
“Tea,” he said practically, started the engine and climbed into the driver’s seat, stretching out his hand to assist her to his side.
The car started with a jerk but ran smoothly down the hill.
“It is rather lucky that gate is open,” he said as the machine gathered speed. “It would be rather comic if we couldn’t stop the car.”
A piercing shriek of an engine brought his head round.
“That must be another line,” he said uneasily and put his hand on the brake; “anyway, the gate is open,” he said relieved.
Again came the frenzied scream of the engine and he heard the thunder of its wheels. He was fifty yards from the crossing when he saw the gates begin to move. He pressed on the foot brake without producing any diminution of speed, gripped the hand brake, pulled it back until he felt the snap of the rotten handle as it broke. There was nothing for it but to take a risk. He pushed over the accelerator and the car leaped forward.…
Car and gate and train seemed to reach the spot simultaneously.
The girl found herself flung headlong into a ditch, fortunately landing in the soft mud at the bottom. Alphonso’s fall was broken by the quick-set hedge which ripped his clothes to ribbons and scarred his face and hands. He picked himself up and went in search of the girl and found her as she was climbing unsteadily on to the permanent way.
The train had pulled up with a jerk amidst a chaos of smashed gate and mangled motor-car. Fortunately, it was slowing at the closed gate at the time the collision occurred, otherwise these two young people presenting a fantastic appearance might have ended their promising careers.
“Are you hurt?” were the first words she asked.
His face was scratched and his clothes were torn but though he had by far the worse experience his was not the woe-begone appearance which the girl presented. She was caked with mud, a dab of mud was on her cheek, her hat was gone and her long brown hair was flying in all directions.
The passengers of the “special” were perhaps more perturbed than its victims.
“It is an accident. We have run into a motor-car,” reported the conductor.
“Is anybody killed?” asked Sir Ralph in alarm.
“No, sir, a young man and a young woman who are more frightened than hurt.”
“Let us go and look at them,” said Lord Flanborough and stepped down to the permanent way.
It is a truism that there is no such thing as a paternal instinct and he would have indeed been a wise father who recognized his child in such disarray.
He was speechless for a moment.
“Moya,” he gasped hollowly. “Moya! Great Heavens! What were you doing here?”
He stared round at the scarecrow by her side and at sight of the young man, Sir Ralph, who had been struck dumb by the apparition, found his voice.
“I see, I see,” he said bitterly.
“You have the advantage of me,” said the young man, “for I have got a little piece of Hampshire in my eye.”
The girl swung round to him fumbling for her handkerchief.
“It is nothing, dear,” said the young man, blissfully unconscious of the identity of the well-fed gentleman who was regarding him so sternly.
“But, darling, you might be blinded,” pleaded the girl; “please let me.”
“Moya,” said Lord Flanborough in a pained tone, “may I ask what is the meaning of this?”
“Oh, I want you to meet Mr. Blaxton,” said the girl going red and white. “Fonso, this is papa.”
“I should be glad to see you,” said Fonso, groping wildly on the blind side of him.
“ ‘Fonso’?” repeated the enraged Flanborough, “and who, may I ask, is Fonso?”
She fastened back her unruly hair and rubbed her mud-stained cheek with her handkerchief before she replied.
“I suppose it will come as a shock to you and a greater shock to Sir Ralph, but Fonso and I are going to be married,” she said.
Alphonso Blaxton blinked at her.
“I haven’t asked you yet,” he said.
“That doesn’t matter,” she replied calmly, “you do want me, don’t you?” And before her horrified father and her promised husband, Alphonso took her in his arms and hugged her.
It was an awkward journey back to town. Sir Ralph sat by himself and rejected all Lord Flanborough’s attempts to discuss the matter. He was hurt in his pride and, if the truth be told, hurt in his pocket because an alliance with the family meant a considerable addition to his fortune.
It is a mistake to believe that rich people do not care for money or that a man with two millions is wholly indifferent as to whether he has two or three. Indeed, the reverse is the case. The man who thinks in thousands is indifferent to a figure or two, the man who counts his fortune in shillings seldom knows the number of shillings he has. Only your two-millionaire realizes the full value of money. The thrift of the millionaire might well serve as an example to the improvident poor.
“I shall speak to Moya when we get home,” said Lord Flanborough. “I have never been so distressed at anything so much in my life. It is disgraceful, Ralph.”
But Ralph did not encourage sympathy.
As a matter of fact, his lordship spoke to the girl before the special ran into London Street Station. It required some courage on his part, for it meant intruding upon the couple in the little stateroom which ordinarily served as a sleeping apartment when Sir Ralph’s private coach carried him on night journeys.
He found them a picture of decorum sitting rigidly bolt upright, one on either side of the carriage, looking out of the window with fine unconcern; but this attitude was probably due to the fact that the door of the compartment made a very loud rattling noise when the handle was turned.
“I want to speak to you alone, Moya.”
“Run away, Fonso,” said the girl with a gaiety out of harmony with her rigidity of attitude.
Alphonso stepped out of the saloon and closed the sliding door behind him.
“Now, Moya,” said his lordship with a badly simulated air of friendliness, “perhaps you will explain?”
“Why I am going to marry Fonso?” she asked, “because I love him. Why do you think that I should be marrying him?”
“This sounds very much like Michael. It is the way he would talk,” said Lord Flanborough bitterly. “This shows the danger of letting your children associate with irregular people. You know very well that you are engaged to Sir Ralph.”
“I know he gave me a ring and we agreed to get married,” she said, “but I have changed my mind.”
“But you can’t change your mind,” stormed her father; “it is impossible that my daughter should marry a wretched artist.”
“He’s not wretched and he is not an artist,” said the girl; “we have both agreed that he is not an artist and he is going to find something useful to do.”
“If you marry this man,” he pointed a trembling finger at her, “I will not receive you as my daughter.”
“I don’t want to be received at all. You married whom you wanted to marry, didn’t you?”
“I married,” said Lord Flanborough virtuously, “in accordance with the wishes of my parents.”
“Do you mean to say,” said the girl incredulously, “that you had no voice in it? I cannot imagine it. My dear daddy, it is preposterous to suggest that a person of your strong character accepted the wife that somebody else found for him!”
“Well, I admit,” said her father somewhat mollified, “that I had a say in the matter but I had the sense to choose the right person.”
“That is just what I am doing,” she cried in triumph, “choosing the right person! And, Daddy, if you are rude to Fonso, I shall be very rude to Ralph.”
“The man of course is a fortune hunter,” said Lord Flanborough savagely. “He knows that you have money in your own right and that I cannot save you from the consequences of your folly.”
“What is Ralph?” she asked tartly.
“Sir Ralph is a very rich man,” said her father with emphasis.
“What does he get with me?” she asked again.
This was the question which Lord Flanborough did not find it convenient to answer. He knew that marriage with his daughter would bring to Sir Ralph a much greater fortune than she possessed in her own right.
“Go and ask your disinterested friend if he will take me without a dot, and if I were to give my own income to found a hospital for women.”
“I am sure Sir Ralph would answer in the affirmative,” replied Lord Flanborough.
“Ask him,” she challenged.
He passed out of the compartment scowling at the offending Fonso and made his way to Sir Ralph. He had not intended putting the question, but some chance remark of the baronet’s just before the train reached London gave him an opportunity of introducing the subject.
“Would you care to marry Moya without the settlement we agreed, Ralph?”
“What on earth do you mean?” asked Sir Ralph, astonished out of his sulks. Money was a subject which invariably aroused him from the deepest lethargy.
“I mean,” said his future father-in-law, “suppose I say ‘You love Moya and all that sort of thing. You are a very rich man, you can afford to keep her, take her without a settlement,’ what would you answer?”
“Certainly not!” said Sir Ralph furiously, “certainly not! I don’t understand this business at all, Flanborough, I really don’t understand it. We made an arrangement and now, it seems, you want to back out of it. What is the objection to the settlement?”
“I have no objection at all,” admitted Lord Flanborough uncomfortably, “but Moya thinks that money is a big factor in your choice of her.”
“Of course it is,” said Sir Ralph with brutal directness. “I was very fond of Moya, but the settlement was a big consideration.”
“I see,” said Lord Flanborough incoherently, “Moya’s idea of course.…”
Michael met them at the station and noticed the constraint of the party. He understood the reason when a bedraggled Moya and a young man, whose face was criss-crossed with scratches and whose clothes were in threads, made their appearance. There was no explanation possible and Michael wisely asked for none. He handed over Lord Flanborough and his friend to the care of the city detective officer in charge of the case and when they had gone he turned to Moya.
“Have you two people been fighting?” he asked.
“Father’s horribly angry with me,” she said, “because I am going to marry Fonso.”
He stared at her in amazement.
“Do you mean to tell me that you are not going to marry Ralph?”
“I am not,” she said resolutely.
“And this is Fonso?”
The girl nodded.
Michael threw back his head and filled the station with laughter.
“You don’t know Fonso, do you?” she said. “He’s horribly poor. Aren’t you, dear?”
“Horribly,” admitted the young man but did not seem unhappy.
“And you are going to marry him?” said Michael.
“Of course I am going to marry him,” said the girl wrathfully. “I didn’t expect that you would disapprove.”
“Disapprove?” he chuckled and catching her up in his strong arms he kissed her.
“We will all go along and have some grub,” he said; “dash home and make yourself respectable, Moya. I see your father has left his car for you. Meet me at Sebo’s in an hour’s time.”
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CHRONOLOGY OF A GREAT THEFT
It is necessary to tell the story of what was undoubtedly one of the strangest and most audacious crimes recorded in the annals of crime with greater detail and at greater length than is ordinarily necessary. Le Flavier of the French police, who is surely the greatest living authority on the subject of modern crime, has likened Kate Westhanger’s masterpiece (he does not refer to her, by the way) to the first of the Napoleonic campaigns against Italy and has published an elaborate treatise showing the points of resemblance which are not so far fetched as some of the critics, in their hasty review of this work, are justified in saying.
Kirschner, a little quoted authority, but nevertheless a brilliant and talented philocriminologist, has said that it would be humanly possible to reduplicate such a crime and that at any rate it would be wholly impossible to excel the ingenuity which planned the strategics of the issue.
At 8:30 on the night of May 14th the Charter Queen, eight thousand tons, commander T. Brown, came to her moorings in E-basin, No. 3 Quay of the Seahampton Docks. She carried a hundred-and-twenty third class passengers, seventy-four second class and fifty-nine first class passengers, a general cargo and in her strong-room forty-four thousand, eight hundred pounds of bar gold. They were made up of four-hundred and forty-eight hundred-pound ingots, bearing the stamp of the Central Rand Gold Extraction Company.
The passengers were landed and despatched by special trains to London, preceded by another train carrying the mails. The mail train left at 9:27, the passenger at 9:42. By 10:17 the gold ingots had been landed, checked and conveyed to a waiting train where they were checked again under the superintendence of Inspector K. Morris of the Dock police. At 10:22 the engine backed into the train and was coupled up and the superintendent of the line being unavoidably absent (he was discovered locked in an empty house the next morning), the driver received his “right away” from Assistant-Inspector Thomas Massey, who had arrived that day from London and who spoke to the driver and fireman before the train pulled out.
“You know this road, I suppose?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” replied the driver. “I have been down here several times.”
The inspector was not wholly satisfied. In the first place, he resented seeing “foreign drivers” on his road, but the two men had arrived from London bearing a letter from Sir Ralph to the superintendent of the road, a letter which afterwards proved to be a forgery. The letter instructed the superintendent to give the men charge of the engine, offering, as a reason, their reliability and the fact that they were two of the best drivers at the North Central, which railway was under the control of Sir Ralph Sapson.
The train pulled out and from this onward its adventures began.
From the moment it left Seahampton Town station, the train was never out of sight for longer than ten minutes. Every signal box along the line had received special instructions to particularly note its passing and in addition to the conventional record which is kept of every train, to notify specially not only to the next box, but to London the hour of its dispatch. The road may be briefly described.
From Seahampton it ran straight to the market town of Sevilley and then over the S-shape road across to Tolbridge. It may be remarked in passing that between Sevilley and the Tolbridge was the level crossing at which Moya had met with her accident. Between Tolbridge and Pinham the road pushed straight through uneven ground passing successively under Tolbridge Hill, Beckham Beacon and Pinham Heights, under each of which it passed through tunnels, the tunnels being connected nearly all the way by deep cuttings.
It was a rainy night for the drizzle, which set in at six in the evening, had continued until there was a veritable deluge. Sevilley (East) signalbox reported the gold train as having passed at 11:07, and this fact was supported by the times given by six signalmen between Tolbridge and Sevilley. The train slowed at Tolbridge and entered Tolbridge tunnel. Between Beckham tunnel and Tolbridge tunnel is a signalbox which reported the Special at 11:32. The signalbox was situated close to the line and rather near the ground and the signalman states that he not only saw the train pass him in the pelting rain, but that he saw the tail lights disappear into Beckham tunnel which is built on a curve.
The times are interesting. At 11:32 the train entered Beckham tunnel. At 11:42 the signalman on the northern side of Pinham tunnel reported the train as having passed. It was raining but owing to the unusual character of this new service and his natural curiosity to see a £3,000,000 “special” he had his window open and saw the three green lights flash past and the red tail lights disappearing in the distance. Between Beckham signalbox and Pinham signalbox the distance is five miles, but the theory is that at this point the train slowed to thirty miles an hour, which accounted for the unusual length of time it took to traverse this short distance.
At Maidmore, Stanborn, Quexley Paddocks and Catford Bridge, on the outskirts of London, the train was reported and timed. The next station to Catford Bridge is Balham Hill and the signalman at Balham Hill stated at the subsequent enquiry that he was given and accepted the gold special at 11:53 and lowered the “distant off” and the “home” signals, at the same time warning the next northern station, which was Kennington Junction that he had accepted the “:46 up” which was the official designation of the special.
He waited for ten minutes and saw no sign of the train, whereupon he called Quexley Paddocks and asked if there had not been a mistake since the run was not more than seven minutes. Quexley Paddocks replied that the train had passed through, going at fifty miles an hour at the moment she had been signalled.
No further news was received and the Catford Bridge signalman, becoming alarmed, reported to the station-master on duty, who sent two plate-layers along the line. They walked as far as Quexley Paddocks but saw no sign of a train. The gold special had disappeared as though the earth had opened and received it.
All these times had been verified. Every signalman and station-master was interrogated without in any way shaking the veracity of the witnesses. When the plate-layers reached Quexley Paddocks and reported the disappearance of the train, London was informed. Between Quexley Paddocks and Catford Bridge the line runs through market gardens and what is very unusual so close to London, it passes over a level crossing, the gates of which are electrically controlled from Quexley Paddocks signalbox.
And here is the most remarkable of the statements that were made. The signalman, Henry George Wallis, states that after the gold special had passed and he had brought his signals back to danger, he had noticed a strange disturbance on the dial of the electrical apparatus by which the gates were opened or closed and it was discovered the next morning when he endeavoured to open the gates to allow an army traction engine to pass that the gates refused to work. That happening, however, was very thoroughly investigated on the following day.
Michael had dined and supped with Moya and Fonso Blaxton and they had had a riotous and wholly joyous evening. He had returned to his flat at half past eleven, calling en route at the Yard, for he was still very uneasy about Kate’s threat and he was anxious also to find out if there had been any discovery made in connection with the outrage of the morning. The case was not in his hands since the crime had been committed within the jurisdiction of the city police and the city Criminal Investigation Department had control of the investigations.
T.B. was at the office and had no news to give. Michael went home and to bed. He was aroused at half past twelve by telephone. It was the voice of T.B. Smith.
“They’ve done it, Mike. Come down at once.”
“What have they done?” asked Michael with a sinking heart.
“They’ve pinched the blooming train!” said T.B. vulgarly.
A special train had been made up for the police and Michael was on the platform of Catford Bridge station by half past one, and was reading the reports which had been transmitted by the various signalmen. To add to the mystery, a mineral train from Seahampton which had followed the gold special at half an hour’s interval, but at a slower pace, had come straight through without noticing anything unusual. It had crossed the down empty at Tolbridge and that was the only other train that was met until it reached the suburbs of London where the night traffic was more general. Sir Ralph was one of the party that went down to Catford Bridge and a very distressed and worried man he was.
“I asked that fellow Flanborough to come,” he wailed, “and what do you think the selfish beast said? He said it was my responsibility. Can you imagine anything more brutal?”
“Is the gold insured?”
Sir Ralph shook his head.
“Not wholly. It was fully insured as far as Seahampton,” he said grimly. “After that the responsibility is partly mine and partly Flanborough’s and partly the underwriters’. Isn’t it too awful for words?”
T.B. came into the waiting room at that moment, clad in oilskins and sou’wester.
“You had better take complete charge of this case, Mike,” he said. “Sir Ralph will give you any assistance, I’m sure.”
“Can I have a break-down train?”
“I can bring one down here in twenty minutes,” said Sir Ralph.
“Is it equipped with searchlights?”
Sir Ralph consulted an official.
“We’ve naphtha flares. Will they do?”
“They will do,” said Michael; “put a truck in front of the engine and arrange the flares so that they light up the line.”
He spent the night in an open truck, slowly passing down the line searching for some clue which would afford a solution to the mystery. Particularly thorough was his search of the three tunnels, but they yielded nothing, and he reached Seahampton as the dawn was breaking without having made any discovery which would help him.
He went back to town by the break-down train, sleeping in the guard’s caboose, and reached Quexley in time to receive from the retiring signalman the story of his eccentric gates.
Michael was interested and with the man for a guide he followed the course of the controlling wire which passed through a length of iron piping from the signal box to the gate.
“The electrician tells me that the wire has been cut somewhere,” said the man. “He has tried his instrument on it.”
“The wire cannot be cut if it is inside the iron casing,” said Michael.
“It is either cut or fused,” said the man.
The detective walked very slowly, pausing now and again to examine the black painted pipe. Presently he stopped. He had detected something and stooped to examine the pipe more closely. It was clear that it had been freshly painted. He passed his hand round it slowly and suddenly he felt an unexpected softness.
“This isn’t iron,” he said.
He took out his pocket-knife and scraped. A little hole had been burnt into the steel by a portable blow-pipe and the wires inside had been fused together by the heat.
“That explains it,” said Michael. “What effect would this have on the gates?” he asked.
“Well, you couldn’t open them from the box,” said the man.
“Could you open them by hand?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve got a chap on duty now who does nothing but open and shut them,” said the man. “While the current is on, they are locked. They work like ordinary gates, except you have to be very careful when you lock them.”
Michael waited until a train had passed and then experimented.
The gates opened and closed easily enough.
“What do you mean when you tell me that you have to be careful with the catch?”
“Well, ordinarily, when you use it without the current,” said the man, “the catch falls and cannot be lifted except by electric control.”
Michael made an inspection of the “catch.” It was a steel block working on a pivot and obviously operated magnetically.
“It doesn’t go up or down, now,” said Michael after testing it.
“It looks to me,” said the man, “as though it has been forced up.”
There was no doubt that what he said was true for the detective saw the unmistakable mark of a jemmy on the wooden casing about the lock.
But why on earth did they want to open the gate? If the train had been rifled on this stretch of line the need for an open gate would have been easy to explain. The train would have been stopped here and, supposing they could force the locks of the safe, the thieves could have loaded their gold and got away—but no train had been found.
Michael passed through the turnstile and examined the road for something to guide him to a solution.
It had been raining throughout the night and more than one traction engine had passed, as was evident from the wheel marks. He explored the road for a hundred yards and found nothing. Then he tried the other gate and found that there the catch had also been forced. The first twenty yards of the road was soft and the wheel tracks were indistinguishable. At the end of this patch, however, the going was harder, the crown of the road had drained off the rain and even the traction engine had left no great impression.
Michael walked a pace or two, then stopped and whistled, and well might he whistle, for there plain to be seen and not to be confused with any other track was the deep and narrow furrow and the broad impression which could have only been made by railway wheels!
He followed the track for another hundred yards where it struck the main road and a tram line and from there every trace disappeared.
Very weary and dishevelled he presented himself to T.B. Smith and made his report.
“You don’t seriously suggest that they took a railway train off the line and put it on the road, do you?” asked T.B. in wonder. “It’s impossible!”
“Of course it’s impossible,” said Michael irritably; “the whole thing is impossible. You can’t steal a railway train—but they’ve done it!”
He found with the assistant commissioner Sir Ralph whose agitation was pathetic.
“It’s pretty rough on me, old man,” said the baronet with that friendliness which the superior person invariably adopts in a moment of his misfortune. “I have lost a wife and a railway train in twenty-four hours. What the dickens are you laughing at?”
“Nothing,” said Michael recovering his gravity. “It was almost worth everything to see your face!”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE REMARKABLE TRAIN THAT DID
STRANGE TRICKS
By six o’clock that evening Michael Pretherston was back again at his work, passing down from station to station on a pilot engine, questioning and cross-examining the officials concerned. T.B. Smith picked him up at Maidmore going down by the ordinary train.
“Have you found anything?”
“I have a theory,” said Michael. “I’d like you to listen to what the station-master here has to say.”
“Have you questioned him?”
“Not yet,” said Michael, “but I have an idea he will say exactly what the man at Stanborn said.”
The inspector who had been on night duty at the time the train passed proved to be a very intelligent and observant man. He told the same story, that the rain was falling very heavily and that he had seen the distant lights of the gold special which had flown through the dark station at incredible pace.
“Is it not a fact,” said Michael, “that it passed you before you realized it was gone?”
The man was surprised.
“That is so, sir. It seemed as though I had hardly seen the headlights come into the station before I saw the tail-lights going out.”
“Did it whistle as it passed through?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, “a deafening whistle. I remarked to my porter at the time that it must be trying a new kind of siren. It made the most fiendish row and you could hear nothing else.”
“It whistled through all the stations where there was somebody on duty,” said Michael turning to T.B. Smith. “It is a curious fact that at Stanborn Halt and Merchley which are closed for the night they made no noise at all. Was the station in darkness?” he said, turning to the inspector.
“Practically so, sir,” said the man; “there was one light on the down platform where I was standing, but it was a very dark night and it was impossible to distinguish anything on the other platform. All that we saw was the flash of lights and the train had passed before one had realized that it had gone.”
The inspector at Pinham Heights station had a similar story to tell.
But the Tolbridge junction signalman and the Tolbridge assistant station-master did not report any whistle or any unusual happening.
T.B. and Michael spent the night at Tolbridge and resumed their journey at daybreak. It was a slow and laborious business. Once between Pinham and Beckham Beacon, Michael had stopped the train and switched it on to a sidetrack.
“Why is there a sidetrack here?” he asked.
The railway official who accompanied him and who by this time was very weary of the whole business, explained vaguely that it was partly to provide a very necessary relief for any congestion on this section, and partly to connect up a “chalk pit or something” which now, however, was no longer used.
Michael walked along the rusted rails for a quarter of a mile. They led toward a low line of hills about three miles away. Rank vegetation grew between the sleepers, for it had been many years since its private owners had taken the trouble to put this little branch line in working order.
The road ended abruptly with a big buffer made of sleepers and behind this the rail drooped limply over a great hole as though there had been a subsidence of the earth.
Michael turned back and joined T.B.
“It could not have passed over here. The rail is rusty and runs into a large-sized hole at the other end,” said Michael in despair. “Well, go on, driver.”
It was a day of enquiries which led nowhere and Michael returned that night to town, weary and sick at heart. Nevertheless, he had the dim beginnings of a theory which, however, he refused to communicate to his chief.
“It is rather fantastic,” he excused himself, “but then, the whole thing is fantastic. It is obviously impossible to steal a railway train and carry it through the streets of London without somebody being attracted by the novelty of the spectacle.”
“Will you see Sir Ralph?” asked T.B. “He has been waiting here for an hour to meet you.”
“Hasn’t he got a home?” asked Michael irritably.
He saw the distracted baronet but could offer him little hope.
“It is impossible they can get away with it,” said Sir Ralph; “my expert tells me that it will take them two days to break through the steel walls whatever they use.”
A thought struck Michael.
“Have you a large scale map of your southern railway system?” he asked.
“I will have it sent round to you to-night,” said the baronet. “What chance do you think there is?” he asked anxiously.
“I think a very poor chance,” said Michael frankly; “you see, Kate doesn’t take any risk.”
“Kate?” said the baronet.
“You call her the ‘Princess Bacheffski.’ Flanborough calls her ‘Miss Tenby.’ As ‘Miss Tenby’ she secured Flanborough’s code and through some of her agents in the telegraph office learned about the shipment. As ‘Princess Bacheffski’ she wheedled the whole of your wonderful scheme for bringing gold from Seahampton and probably discovered the nature of the steel you use.”
“Good heavens!”
Sir Ralph sank into a chair and turned pale.
“You don’t mean to tell me—?”
“That is what I mean to tell you. Didn’t you realize that the whole thing was a put up job? Why should the car of the Princess break down at your front door?”
“But she was so beautifully dressed.”
“Why shouldn’t she be beautifully dressed?” asked Michael mercilessly; “she probably carried twenty thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds. Wasn’t it worth it? Didn’t you give her information which she could not have bought for the money?”
“Then you mean to say that she is a common swindler?”
“She is a very uncommon swindler,” said Michael. “There’s only one thing that puzzles me,” he said, half to himself; “what did she want of Reggie?”
Mr. Reginald Boltover was interrupted in the delicate business of dressing for dinner by a peremptory demand that an officer of Scotland Yard should be admitted. He was relieved to discover that it was nothing more formidable than Michael.
“I have come to ask you about your friend Vera.”
Mr. Boltover winced.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “don’t mention that lady’s name. It is a sore subject. Don’t mention her, dear old fellow, don’t.”
“Don’t be an ass,” said Michael good-humouredly; “you must give me an idea of the questions which she asked you. What did she talk about?”
But Mr. Boltover’s mind was a blank.
It was his boast that he did not know there was such a thing as yesterday.
“Did she ask you to give her any information about things you are interested in?”
“My dear fellow,” said Reggie Boltover, shaking his head, “if she did I have forgotten it. All I know is that she very seriously compromised me. I have not been to Sebo’s since.”
“As you are such a perfectly hopeless person,” said Michael, “will you give me a note to your secretary or your factotum or whatever human substitute for mentality you possess, instructing him to give me a full list of your properties?”
“With the greatest pleasure in life, with every happiness,” said Reggie earnestly, “with the greatest alacrity!”
Armed with this, Michael called the next morning at the office of one who was frequently referred to by journalists as a “merchant prince,” and when he came out into Threadneedle Street his step was lighter and his eye was brighter than it had been for weeks.
“Now, Kate,” he said between his teeth, “this is where you finish!”
He could have had all the men he wanted but he preferred making his investigation without assistance. He went home and changed into a knickerbocker suit, took his oldest overcoat, a walking stick and a Browning pistol with two spare magazines. He did not ask for a special engine, but travelled to Pinham Heights station by ordinary train. He showed his authority to the station-master who, however, recognized him.
“I don’t want anybody to know that I am down here,” he said, “and I must rely upon your discretion to see that my wishes in this respect are carried out. Am I likely to meet any plate-layers or people on the line between here and Tolbridge?”
“You will meet nobody until you come to Tolbridge box, but be very careful,” warned the station-master, “the down express goes through the tunnel in ten minutes. I should advise you not to leave until that has passed.”
This advice Michael thought it expedient to accept and not until the rocking train had shrieked through the station and the receding red lamps were disappearing in the darkness of the tunnel did he walk down the sloping platform into the six-foot way and pass into the smoking tunnel.
He could have reached his destination by the high road which runs from Pinham round the foot of the Beacon, but for reasons of his own, he preferred to accept the discomforts of the darker way and the uneven going. He passed through the tunnel after a seemingly interminable walk and came to the switch line where his engine had been sidetracked. He followed this until he came to the buffer and the deep hole beyond.
He examined the buffer very carefully, retraced his footsteps and examined the rail. It was, as he had seen before, red with rust. Nevertheless, he went on his knees and examined the rail through a magnifying glass. Then he wetted his finger and drew it along the red surface. He looked at his finger. It was red. But it was not the red of rust.
He walked back, carefully examining every inch of the rail until he found what he sought. At one place by the side of the actual rail was a little red spot. It was no larger than a three-penny piece and it was, to all appearance, rust. But rust does not develop on a wooden sleeper and he found the counterpart of this spot, a trifle larger on the wood. Again he wetted his finger and was satisfied.
For this was not rust, but a very common form of distemper employed by builders.
He went back to the buffer and the sagging rail and climbed down the hole which was about six feet deep. He had noticed that a quantity of green stagnant water at the bottom of the hole advertised its age. Again he drew his hand along the water and examined his palm. It was green, but his strongest magnifying glass (and he had one of peculiarly high power) failed to reveal any sign of that florescence which forms on the surface of water and gives it its peculiar vivid green. Instead, he saw a number of irregular specks, which were undoubtedly crystals.
“Which means,” said Michael to himself, “that Kate is an artist even if Fonso isn’t.”
The green scum which had deceived him at first had been artificially created. Some chemical had been dissolved and had re-crystallised on the surface. He dug into the soft earth on the other side without securing any data as to when the hole had been made, but nearer the surface and on the rim, he saw the white tendrils of growing coltsfoot, which were still humid. One tentacle had been shaved away, but the plant had not yet begun to die, nor the exposed root to blacken.
“This hole was dug on the night of the robbery,” said Michael, “and the earth was artistically removed. Kate would depend upon the railway officials not having bothered to inspect this bit of line.”
As matter of fact, this was so. It was on private property, and after it left the edge of the railway land it ceased to be their responsibility. The buffer was also newly erected. He found this when he had dug down to its foundation. The wood was still dry and there were blades of grass and tiny fragments of plant in the earth beneath. He walked round the little pit and reached the rails on the opposite side. They were rusted as artistically as their fellows. The line twisted and curved across level country for a mile before it turned the shoulder of a hill and disappeared into a gorge, evidently excavated in the course of the working.
Behind this was another chalk hole, and he gathered from an examination of the map, that along this further ridge ran a road. The abandoned cement works had been so built that they were not in view from the railway itself. Possibly the philanthropic purchaser had pulled down the one remaining smokestack on his occupation and the whitened buildings did not stand out against the chalky soil behind them. He had all the evidence he wanted before he had traversed one-half of the two miles which separated him from the chalk pits.
The mark of the heavy wheels was visible now. In places the weeds which grew thickly between the sleepers had been crushed by their passage. He now left the rail and began moving round in a wide semi-circle that would bring him to a low neck in the hill. His plan was to climb the hill from here and work his way back along its crest until he overlooked the works. He was now in the danger zone.
He shifted his stick to his left hand and slipped out his pistol and pulled back the cover. It took him an hour to gain the crest of the neck. He found it more difficult to climb than he had thought. Evidently chalk had been quarried here and, save in one or two places, he was faced by a sheer unscalable wall. It was hard climbing all the way and he was hot and thirsty by the time he reached the top.
From the neck he could only secure a partial view of the works. He had taken the precaution to bring a pair of prismatic glasses and with these he surveyed the ground. There was no sign of the train and for a moment his heart sank. Then he picked up the rail and followed it yard by yard and he could scarcely restrain himself from a yell of joy when he saw the rail led to a big shed, the gates of which were closed.
Originally, this may have been the mill house, but the new tenants had relaid the line so that it passed into the building. He replaced his glasses and continued his climb. He was half-way between the neck and the point which would directly overlook the works when he heard the hum of a motor car and dropped flat. He was within fifty yards of the road which was slightly above him, and looking up very cautiously he saw a car dash past and disappear over the rise.
There was no mistaking its occupant. It was the Spaniard, Gregori.
He rose cautiously and continued his progress, keeping a sharp look-out for the sentries which he knew would be posted on the road. The path he followed was a beaten track. He realized this before he had gone much farther and sought to find a way either to the left or the right, but without success.
He halted and debated with himself the question as to whether he should go back. It was madness to attempt to make the capture alone. Even now, he might have been detected, but if this was the case by the time he went back and procured assistance the whole gang would have gone and probably the gold with them. Of the two risks he decided to take the first.
Little time was given to him to regret this decision. He had taken three paces when he heard the unmistakable whirr of a lariat. He turned to face the danger, pistol in hand, but too late. The rope settled about his neck, he felt a sharp nerve-racking jar and fell heavily to the ground.
CHAPTER XV.
AS SIR RALPH SAID, “BUSINESS IS BUSINESS”
T.B. Smith walked into his outer office.
“Any news of Mr. Pretherston?” he asked.
“No, sir,” was the reply.
“Any news of Barr?”
“No, sir.”
T.B. clicked his lips impatiently.
“Who’s looking after them?”
“Detective-sergeant Grey, sir,” was the reply. “You know we traced him as far as Pinham Heights. After that he seems to have been lost sight of.”
“Have you notified the chief constables of Hampshire, Sussex and Surrey?” asked T.B.
“That has been done, sir,” said the officer. “The local constabulary are making a search.”
T.B. bit his lips.
“I can understand Mr. Pretherston going,” he said, “but what has happened to Barr?”
His subordinate very wisely offered no solution.
There were other anxious enquirers. Moya Felton had called that morning. Sir Ralph had made two visits to headquarters though it was doubtful whether his anxiety was in any way associated with the well being of Michael Pretherston.
“I think Michael will find the gang,” said T.B., “though he may be too late to get the gold.”
“What do I want the gang for?” demanded Sir Ralph wrathfully. “Will the government give me £2,800,000 for them? The gang can go to the devil so far as I am concerned. I want the gold.”
“You may get neither,” said T.B.; “at any rate, it ought to be very pleasing to you, Sir Ralph, that Michael Pretherston is risking his life to recover your property.”
“Isn’t he paid to do it?” demanded Sir Ralph. “Isn’t that the job of a policeman? By Gad! Commissioner, one would imagine that Pretherston was doing something out of the common! I take risks every day of my life.”
“If you could see my mind,” said T.B. Smith suavely, “you would realize that you are taking the biggest risk you have taken to-day. I advise you to go home and get into a calmer frame of mind.”
“When shall I hear anything?” asked the truculent baronet.
“Whenever you are within earshot,” snapped the Commissioner. “Show Sir Ralph out, constable.”
Lord Flanborough did not obtrude his enquiries. He was so far reconciled to Moya that he could discuss the matter dispassionately, without reference to the mésalliance which threatened his family.
“I think on the whole, Moya,” he said, “I had better not see Ralph. After all, business is business and friends are friends; but I disclaim all responsibility for that gold after it left the ship. It is Ralph’s business entirely and I simply won’t accept his suggestion that I share his responsibility to the slightest degree.”
“Will he have to bear the loss?”
“Well, partially bear the loss. A portion will be borne by the underwriters. Ralph, I am afraid, is a very mean man. I hate saying anything about my friends but Ralph is really economical to a point of meanness. I advised him to insure the gold and, to save a beggarly premium, he only insured half of it. I am very sorry for him,” he shook his head mournfully as a symbol of his sympathy. “I am very, very sorry for him, but I think it is better that we do not meet until this business matter is completely settled. On the whole,” he added thoughtfully, “perhaps it is better that your engagement with Ralph is broken off. He has said some very unkind things about you, Moya, which aroused my anger. I do not think you have been wise but I cannot allow any person to discuss you uncharitably.”
If the truth be told, Sir Ralph had said very little about the girl and very much about his lordship, whom he had accused of deliberately evading his responsibilities. This was at the one interview which they had had. It pleased Lord Flanborough to pose as a devoted father, but he did not deceive anybody but himself, for Moya had had a first hand account of the interview from Ralph who had asked her to use her influence to bring about a change in Lord Flanborough’s attitude.
It was the day after the disappearance of Michael Pretherston and Sir Ralph’s nerves were a little shaky. It was unfortunate in the circumstances that he had decided that afternoon to make a call upon the man who, a week before, he had fondly believed was to be his father-in-law. Lord Flanborough had not taken the precaution of warning his servants that he was not at home to Sir Ralph, so he had nobody to blame but himself when the door of his study was flung violently open that afternoon and Ralph Sapson stalked in.
“My dear Sapson,” stammered his lordship, flabbergasted by the unexpectedness of the visit. “Pray, do sit down.”
“I am not going to sit down. I tell you I am not going to sit down,” roared, rather than said, Ralph.
“Let me close the door,” said his lordship in alarm. “My dear man, please remember—”
“I remember nothing except that I am on the brink of ruin. That is what it means. I am on the brink of ruin,” said Ralph, violently thumping the desk. “It is going to cost me a million and a half, and you must bear your share, Flanborough! You are responsible. If it had not been for your infernal daughter this would not have occurred.”
“My daughter,” said Lord Flanborough and feeling himself on perfectly safe ground he could speak with hauteur, “is not a matter for discussion and if you cannot speak respectfully of her, I beg you to leave this room.”
“If it had not been for your daughter we should have remembered to send Griggs back.”
“I am not in charge of the railway,” said his lordship with mock humility. “I cannot order engine-drivers to return to Seahampton. Be reasonable, Sapson!”
“You have got to bear your share,” said the other doggedly, “you are morally responsible. I wish I had never thought of bringing your infernal ships to Seahampton.”
He was haggard and drawn of face. In two days he seemed to have shrunk so that his usually well-fitting clothes hung on him loosely.
“Everything can be discussed in a quiet business-like way,” said Lord Flanborough. “I am very sorry that you have this loss. It is by no means certain that it is a loss, but business is business—you cannot expect me to shoulder your responsibilities, my dear friend.”
“It is your responsibility as well as mine,” stormed Ralph, jumping up from his chair and advancing upon the little man who stepped cautiously backward, “and I insist upon your accepting your share.”
“Which would amount to?” suggested his lordship.
“About seven hundred thousand pounds,” growled the other.
“Seven hundred thousand pounds! Impossible!” said Lord Flanborough emphatically.
Ralph turned livid.
“If you don’t,” he hissed, thumping his palm with his fist, “if you don’t—”
At that moment help came in the shape of Moya. She nodded coolly to Sir Ralph and crossed the room to her father.
“There is no news of Michael,” she said.
“Dear me,” sighed his lordship.
“Michael!” sneered Ralph. “There is no news of the money! That’s the important thing, Moya!”
“We are not on the ‘Moya’ terms any more, Sir Ralph,” she said quietly.
“Rub it in,” groaned the man.
“I don’t want to rub it in. We all have our troubles, but some of us bear them less courageously than others. It won’t ruin you if you do lose all this money. You know you are enormously rich.”
“I am not going to lose,” said Sir Ralph doggedly; “your father has to bear his share.”
“If father is responsible he will bear his share,” said the girl, “but it is not by any means certain that he is responsible, is it, papa?”
“Certainly not,” said Lord Flanborough, placing a table between himself and his infuriated partner.
There was a tap at the door and Sibble came in, somewhat furtively.
He looked mysteriously at Moya and she went to him.
“What is it, Sibble?” she asked.
“There’s a man to see you, miss,” he said. “I think it is something very special.”
“To see me? Who is he?”
“I don’t know who he is, miss, but he has a very special message for you.”
She went out into the hall. A respectable looking man stood hat in hand. By his thick coat she thought at first he was an omnibus driver. In a sense, she was right.
“Are you Lady Moya Felton, madame?”
“Yes,” said the girl.
He handed her a card. She took it. It was a business card announcing that Messrs. Acton and Arkwright, contractors, were prepared to remove anything from machinery to furniture and that they had a “larger number of motor lorries than any other firm doing business in the south of England.”
“I am afraid there is a mistake,” she said. “I didn’t send for you.”
“No, miss, we’ve brought the goods.”
“The goods?” she said puzzled.
He led the way to the door.
Lining one side of the street and stretching from the house to the corner of Gaspard Place were ten motor lorries.
“Here’s the name.”
He turned the card over.
“Lord Flanborough, Felton House, Grosvenor Avenue,” said the man reading it over her shoulder.
“Have you any letter?”
“No, miss, these are all the instructions I had. I was told to bring the chemicals to his lordship and ask for you.”
“Chemicals?” she said.
Her father had followed her to the door.
“What is it?” he asked.
“This man has brought some chemicals for you.”
“Oh, nonsense, there is some mistake,” said Lord Flanborough. “I am not a chemist.”
He went down the steps with the girl to the first lorry. She looked inside and apparently it was empty.
“What is it you have brought?” she asked in surprise.
“There they are, miss, on the floor.”
And then she saw a number of packages wrapped in sacking.
“They’re pretty heavy,” said the man, “considering their size.”
She reached out her hand and tried to draw one toward her. It defied her efforts. Lord Flanborough tried and succeeded in moving it. Something in its shape startled him.
“Have you a knife?” he asked the man.
The contractor produced a big clasp knife and opened it.
“Be careful, my lord,” he warned, “they’re dangerous—”
But Lord Flanborough had ripped the canvas package and exposed a dull yellow ingot. He dropped the knife and stepped back.
“How many wagons are there?” he asked huskily.
“Ten, sir. They’ve all got the same number of packages—and are we to take them to the Docks?”
Lord Flanborough made a rapid calculation.
“Take them into the basement and put them into the coal cellar,” he said and went up the steps two at a time and back into his study.
Sir Ralph was still waiting. The rudeness of his host neither increased nor decreased his irritation.
Lord Flanborough stepped up to him briskly.
“Look here, Sapson,” he said. “What responsibility do you want me to bear in the matter of this gold?”
“I want you to bear half.”
“I will do more than that,” said his lordship. “I will assume the whole responsibility for two hundred thousand pounds.”
Ralph swung round.
“You will?” he said incredulously.
“I will.”
“Done,” said Sir Ralph and pulled out his cheque book.
He wrote quickly and nervously but quite legibly enough and handed the slip to Lord Flanborough, what time his lordship was writing with more leisure but no less excitement on the other side of the table.
“There’s your cheque,” said Sir Ralph.
“And there’s my note freeing you from responsibility,” said his lordship.
“I am sorry I have been so unpleasant,” said the baronet wiping his steaming brow, “but you will understand.”
“I quite understand,” said Lord Flanborough.
“Business is business,” said Ralph.
“Business is business,” repeated his lordship and folding the cheque slipped it into his pocket.