CHAPTER XII
Mr. Reeder was in his room, laying out his moderate toilet requirements on the dressing-table, and meditating upon the waste of time involved in conforming to fashion—for he had dressed for dinner—when there came a tap at the door. He paused, a well-worn hairbrush in his hand, and looked round.
“Come in,” he said, and added: “if you please.”
The little head of Mr. Daver appeared round the opening of the door, anxiety and apology in every line of his peculiar face.
“Am I interrupting you?” he asked. “I am terribly sorry to bother you at all, but Miss Belman being away, you quite understand? I’m sure you do…?”
Mr. Reeder was courtesy itself.
“Come in, come in, sir,” he said. “I was merely preparing for the night. I am a very tired man, and the sea air——”
He saw the face of the proprietor fall.
“Then, Mr. Reeder, I have come upon a useless errand. The truth is”—he slipped inside the door, closed it carefully behind him, as though he had an important statement to make which he did not wish to be overheard—“my three guests are anxious to play bridge, and they deputed me to ask if you would care to join them?”
“With every pleasure in life,” said Mr. Reeder graciously. “I am an indifferent player, but if they will bear with me, I will be down in a few minutes.”
Mr. Daver withdrew, babbling his gratitude and apologies. The door was hardly closed upon him before Mr. Reeder crossed the room and locked it. Stooping, he opened one of the trunks, took out a long, flexible rope-ladder, and dropped it through the open window into the darkness below, fastening one end to the leg of the four-poster. Leaning out of the window, he said something in a low voice, and braced himself against the bed to support the weight of the man who came nimbly up the ladder into the room. This done, he replaced the rope-ladder in his trunk, locked it, and, walking to a corner of the room, pulled at one of the solid panels. It hinged open and revealed the deep cupboard which Mr. Daver had shown him.
“That is as good a place as any, Brill,” he said. “I’m sorry I must leave you for two hours, but I have an idea that nobody will disturb you there. I am leaving the lamp burning, which will give you enough light.”
“Very good, sir,” said the man from Scotland Yard, and took up his post.
Five minutes later Mr. Reeder locked the door of his room and went downstairs to the waiting party.
They were in the big hall, a very silent and preoccupied trio, until his arrival galvanised them into something that might pass for light conversation. There was, indeed, a fourth present when he came in: a sallow-faced woman in black, who melted out of the hall at his approach, and he guessed her to be the melancholy Mrs. Burton. The two men rose at his approach, and after the usual self-deprecatory exchange which preceded the cutting for partners, Mr. Reeder found himself sitting opposite the military-looking Colonel Hothling. On his left was the pale girl; on his right the hard-faced Rev. Mr. Dean.
“What do we play for?” growled the Colonel, caressing his moustache, his steely blue eyes fixed on Mr. Reeder.
“A modest stake, I hope,” begged that gentleman. “I am such an indifferent player.”
“I suggest sixpence a hundred,” said the clergyman. “It is as much as a poor parson can afford.”
“Or a poor pensioner either,” grumbled the Colonel, and sixpence a hundred was agreed.
They played two games in comparative silence. Reeder was sensitive of a strained atmosphere, but did nothing to relieve it. His partner was surprisingly nervous for one who, as he remarked casually, had spent his life in military service.
“A wonderful life,” said Mr. Reeder in his affable way.
Once or twice he detected the girl’s hand, as she held the cards, tremble ever so slightly. Only the clergyman remained still and unmoved, and, incidentally, played without error.
It was after an atrocious revoke on the part of his partner, a revoke which gave his opponents the game and rubber, that Mr. Reeder pushed back his chair.
“What a strange world this is!” he remarked sententiously. “How like a game of cards!”
Those who were best acquainted with Mr. Reeder knew that he was most dangerous when he was most philosophical. The three people who sat about the table heard only a boring commonplace, in keeping with their conception of this somewhat dull-looking man.
“There are some people,” mused Mr. Reeder, looking up at the lofty ceiling, “who are never happy unless they have all the aces. I, on the contrary, am most cheerful when I have in my hand all the knaves.”
“You play a very good game, Mr. Reeder.”
It was the girl who spoke, and her voice was husky, her tone hesitant, as though she were forcing herself to speak.
“I play one or two games rather well,” said Mr. Reeder. “Partly, I think, because I have such an extraordinary memory—I never forget knaves.”
There was a silence. This time the reference was too direct to be mistaken.
“There used to be in my younger days,” Mr. Reeder went on, addressing nobody in particular, “a Knave of Hearts, who eventually became a Knave of Clubs, and drifted down into heaven knows what other welters of knavery! In plain words, he started his professional—um—life as a bigamist, continued his interesting and romantic career as a tout for gambling hells, and was concerned in a bank robbery in Denver. I have not seen him for years, but he is colloquially known to his associates as ‘The Colonel’; a military-looking gentleman with a pleasing appearance and a glib tongue.”
He was not looking at the Colonel as he spoke, so he did not see the man’s face go pale.
“I have not met him since he grew a moustache, but I could recognise him anywhere by the peculiar colour of his eyes and by the fact that he has a scar at the back of his head, a souvenir of some unfortunate fracas in which he was engaged. They tell me that he became an expert user of knives—I gather he sojourned a while in Latin America—a knave of clubs and a knave of hearts—hum!”
The Colonel sat rigid, not a muscle of his face moving.
“One supposes,” Mr. Reeder continued, looking at the girl thoughtfully, “that he has by this time acquired a competence which enables him to stay at the very best hotels without any fear of police supervision.”
Her dark eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his. The full lips were closed, the jaws set.
“How very interesting you are, Mr. Reeder!” she drawled at last. “Mr. Daver tells me you are associated with the police force?”
“Remotely, only remotely,” said Mr. Reeder.
“Are you acquainted with any other knaves, Mr. Reeder?”
It was the cool voice of the clergyman, and Mr. Reeder beamed round at him.
“With the Knave of Diamonds,” he said softly. “What a singularly appropriate name for one who spent five years in the profitable pursuit of illicit diamond-buying in South Africa, and five unprofitable years on the Breakwater in Capetown, becoming, as one might say, a knave of spades from the continuous use of that necessary and agricultural implement, and a knave of pickaxes too, one supposes! He was flogged, if I remember rightly, for an outrageous assault upon a warder, and on his release from prison was implicated in a robbery in Johannesburg. I am relying on my memory, and I cannot recall at the moment whether he reached Pretoria Central—which is the colloquial name for the Transvaal prison—or whether he escaped. I seem to remember that he was concerned in a banknote case which I once had in hand. Now what was his name?”
He looked thoughtfully at the clergyman.
“Gregory Dones! That is it—Mr. Gregory Dones! It is beginning to come back to me now. He had an angel tattooed on his left forearm, a piece of decoration which one would have imagined sufficient to keep him to the narrow paths of virtue, and even to bring him eventually within the fold of the church.”
The Rev. Mr. Dean got up from the table, put his hand in his pocket and took out some money.
“You lost the rubber, but I think you win on points,” he said. “What do I owe you, Mr. Reeder?”
“What you can never pay me,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head. “Believe me, Gregory, your score and mine will never be wholly settled to your satisfaction!”
With a shrug of his shoulders and a smile, the hard-faced clergyman strolled away. Mr. Reeder watched him out of the corner of his eye and saw him disappear towards the vestibule.
“Are all your knaves masculine?” asked Olga Crewe.
Reeder nodded gravely.
“I hope so, Miss Crewe.”
Her challenging eyes met his.
“In other words, you don’t know me?” she said bluntly. And then, with sudden vehemence: “I wish to God you did! I wish you did!”
Turning abruptly, she almost ran from the hall.
Mr. Reeder stood where she had left him, his eyes roving left and right. In the shadowy entrance of the hall, made all the more obscure by the heavy dark curtains which covered it, he saw a dim figure standing. Only for a second, and then it disappeared. The woman Burton, he thought.
It was time to go to his room. He had taken only two steps from the table when all the lights in the hall went out. In such moments as these Mr. Reeder was a very nimble man. He spun round and made for the nearest wall, and stood waiting, his back to the panelling. And then he heard the plaintive voice of Mr. Daver.
“Who on earth has put the lights out? Where are you, Mr. Reeder?”
“Here!” said Mr. Reeder, in a loud voice, and dropped instantly to the ground. Only in time: he heard a whistle, a thud, and something struck the panel above his head.
Mr. Reeder emitted a deep groan and crawled rapidly and noiselessly across the floor.
Again came Daver’s voice:
“What on earth was that? Has anything happened, Mr. Reeder?”
The detective made no reply. Nearer and nearer he was crawling towards where Daver stood. And then, as unexpectedly as they had been extinguished, the lights went up. Daver was standing in front of the curtained doorway, and on the proprietor’s face was a look of blank dismay as Mr. Reeder rose at his feet.
Daver shrank back, his big white teeth set in a fearful grin, his round eyes wide open. He tried to speak, and his mouth opened and closed, but no sound issued. From Reeder his eyes strayed to the panelled wall—but Reeder had already seen the knife buried in the wood.
“Let me think,” he said gently. “Was that the Colonel or the highly intelligent representative of the church?”
He went across to the wall and with an effort pulled out the knife. It was long and broad.
“A murderous weapon,” said Mr. Reeder.
Daver found his voice.
“A murderous weapon,” he echoed hollowly. “Was it—thrown at you, Mr. Reeder?… how very terrible!”
Mr. Reeder was gazing at him sombrely.
“Your idea?” he asked, but by now Mr. Daver was incapable of replying.
Reeder left the shaken proprietor lying limply in one of the big arm-chairs, and walked up the carpeted stairs to the corridor. And if against his black coat the automatic was not visible, it was nevertheless there.
He stopped before his door, unlocked it, and threw it wide open. The lamp by the side of the bed was still burning. Mr. Reeder switched on the wall light, peeped through the crack between the door and the wall before he ventured inside.
He shut the door, locked it, and walked over to the cupboard.
“You may come out, Brill,” he said. “I presume nobody has been here?”
There was no answer, and he pulled open the cupboard door quickly.
It was empty!
“Well, well!” said Mr. Reeder, and that meant that matters were everything but well.
There was no sign of a struggle; nothing in the world to suggest that Detective Brill had not walked out of his own free will and made his exit by the window, which was still open.
Mr. Reeder tiptoed back to the light-switch and turned it; stretched across the bed and extinguished the lamp; and then he sidled cautiously to the window and peeped round the stone framing. It was a very dark night, and he could distinguish no object below.
Events were moving only a little faster than he had anticipated: for this, however, he was responsible. He had forced the hands of the Flack confederation, and they were extremely able hands.
He was unlocking his trunk when he heard a faint sound of steel against steel. Somebody was fitting a key into the lock, and he waited, his automatic covering the door. Nothing further happened, and he went forward to investigate. His flash-lamp showed him what had happened. Somebody outside had inserted a key, turned it and left it in the lock, so that it was impossible for the door to be unlocked from the inside.
“I am rather glad,” said Mr. Reeder, speaking his thoughts aloud, “that Miss—um—Margaret is on her way to London!”
He pursed his lips reflectively. Would he be glad if he also was at this moment en route for London? Mr. Reeder was not very certain about this.
On one point he was satisfied—the Flacks were going to give him a very small margin of time, and that margin must be used to the best advantage.
So far as he could tell, the trunks had not been opened. He pulled out the rope-ladder, groped down to the bottom, and presently withdrew his hand, holding a long white cardboard cylinder. Crawling under the window, he put up his hand and fixed an end of the cylinder in one of the china flower-pots that stood on the broad window-sill and which he had moved to allow the ingress of Brill. When this had been done to his satisfaction, he struck a match and, reaching up, set fire to a little touch-paper at the cylinder’s free end. He brought his hand down just in time; something whizzed into the room and struck the panelling of the opposite wall with an angry smack. There was no sound of explosion. Whoever fired was using an air pistol. Again and again in rapid succession came the pellets, but by now the cylinder was burning and spluttering, and in another instant the grounds were brilliantly illuminated as the flare burst into a dazzling red flame that, he knew, could be seen for miles.
He heard a scampering of feet below, but dared not look out. By the time the first tender-load of detectives had come flying up the drive, the grounds were deserted.
With the exception of the servants, there were only two people at Larmes Keep when the police began their search. Mr. Daver and the faded Mrs. Burton alone remained. “Colonel Hothling” and “the Rev. Mr. Dean” had disappeared as though they had been whisked from the face of the earth.
Big Bill Gordon interviewed the proprietor.
“This is Flack’s headquarters, and you know it. You’ll be well advised to spill everything and save your own skin.”
“But I don’t know the man; I’ve never seen him!” wailed Mr. Daver. “This is the most terrible thing that has happened to me in my life! Can you make me responsible for the character of my guests? You’re a reasonable man? I see you are! If these people are friends of Flack, I have never heard of them in that connection. You may search my house from cellar to garret, and if you find anything that in the least incriminates me, take me off to prison. I ask that as a favour. Is that the statement of an honest man? I see you are convinced!”
Neither he nor Mrs. Burton nor any of the servants who were questioned in the early hours of the morning could afford the slightest clue to the identity of the visitors. Miss Crewe had been in the habit of coming every year and of staying four and sometimes five months. Hothling was a newcomer, as also was the parson. Inquiries made by telephone of the chief of the Siltbury police confirmed Mr. Daver’s statement that he had been the proprietor of Larmes Keep for twenty-five years, and that his past was blameless. He himself produced his title-deeds. A search of his papers, made at his invitation, and of the three tin boxes in the safe, produced nothing but support for his protestations of innocence.
Big Bill interviewed Mr. Reeder in the hall over a cup of coffee at three o’clock in the morning.
“There’s no doubt at all that these people were members of the Flack crowd, probably engaged in advance against his escape, and how they got away the Lord knows! I have had six men on duty on the road since dark, and neither the woman nor the two men passed me.”
“Did you see Brill?” asked Mr. Reeder, suddenly remembering the absent detective.
“Brill?” said the other in astonishment. “He’s with you, isn’t he? You told me to have him under your window——”
In a few words Mr. Reeder explained the situation, and together they went up to No. 7. There was nothing in the cupboard to afford the slightest clue to Brill’s whereabouts. The panels were sounded, but there was no evidence of secret doors—a romantic possibility which Mr. Reeder had not excluded, for this was the type of house where he might expect to find them.
Two men were sent to search the grounds for the missing detective, and Reeder and the police chief went back to finish their coffee.
“Your theory has turned out accurate so far, but there is nothing to connect Daver.”
“Daver’s in it,” said Mr. Reeder. “He was not the knife-thrower: his job was to locate me on behalf of the Colonel. But Daver brought Miss Belman down here in preparation for Flack’s escape.”
Big Bill nodded.
“She was to be hostage for your good behaviour.” He scratched his head irritably. “That’s like one of Crazy Jack’s schemes. But why did he try to shoot you up? Why wasn’t he satisfied with her being at Larmes Keep?”
Mr. Reeder had no immediate explanation. He was dealing with a madman, a thing of whims. Consistency was not to be expected from Mr. Flack.
He passed his fingers through his scanty hair.
“It is all rather puzzling and inexplicable,” he said. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
He was sleeping dreamlessly, under the watchful eye of a Scotland Yard detective, when Big Bill came bursting into the room.
“Get up, Reeder!” he said roughly.
Mr. Reeder sat up in bed, instantly awake.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“Wrong! That gold-lorry left the Bank of England this morning at five o’clock on its way to Tilbury and hasn’t been seen since!”
CHAPTER XIII
At the last moment the bank authorities had changed their mind, and overnight had sent £53,000 worth of gold for conveyance to the ship. They had borrowed for the purpose an army lorry from Woolwich, a service which is sometimes claimed by the national banking institution.
The lorry had been accompanied by eight detectives, the military driver being also armed. Tilbury was reached at half-past eleven o’clock at night, and the lorry, a high-powered Lassavar, had returned to London at two o’clock in the morning and had been loaded in the bank courtyard under the eyes of the officer, sergeant, and two men of the guard which is on duty on the bank premises from sunset to sunrise. A new detachment of picked men from Scotland Yard, each carrying an automatic pistol, loaded the lorry for its second journey, the amount of gold this time being £73,000 worth. After the boxes had been put into the van, they had climbed up and the lorry had driven away from the bank. Each of the eight men guarding this treasure was passed under review by a high officer of Scotland Yard who knew every one personally. The lorry was seen in Commercial Road by a detective-inspector of the division, and its progress was also noted by a police-cyclist patrol who was on duty at the junction of the Ripple and Barking roads.
The main Tilbury road runs within a few hundred yards of the village of Rainham, and it was at this point, only a few miles distant from Tilbury, that the lorry disappeared. Two motor-cyclist policemen who had gone out to meet the gold-convoy, and who had received a telephone message from the Ripple road to say that it had passed, grew uneasy and telephoned to Tilbury.
It was an airless morning, with occasional banks of mist lying in the hollows, and part of the road, especially near the river, was patchily covered with white fog, which dispersed about eight o’clock in the morning under a southeasterly wind. The mist had almost disappeared when the search party from Tilbury pursued their investigations and came upon the one evidence of tragedy which the morning was to reveal. This was an old Ford motor car that had evidently run from the road, miraculously missed a telegraph pole, and ditched itself. The machine had not overturned; there were no visible marks of injury; yet the man who sat at the wheel was stone dead when he was found. An immediate medical examination failed to discover an injury of any kind to the man, who was a small farmer of Rainham, and on the face of it it looked as though he had died of a heart attack whilst on his way to town.
Just beyond the place where he was found the road dips steeply between high banks. It is known as Coles Hollow, and at its deepest part the cutting is crossed by a single-track bridge which connects two portions of the farm through which the road runs. The dead farmer and his machine had been removed when Reeder and the chief of Scotland Yard arrived on the spot. No news of any kind had been received of the lorry; but the local police, who had been following its tracks, had made two discoveries. Apparently, going through the cutting, the front wheels of the trolley had collided with the side, for there was a deep scoop in the clayey soil which the impact had hollowed out.
“It almost appears,” said Simpson, who had been put in charge of the case, “that the trolley swerved here to avoid the farmer’s car. There are his wheel tracks, and you notice they were wobbling from side to side. Probably the man was already dying.”
“Have you traced the trolley tracks from here?” asked Reeder.
Simpson nodded, and called a sergeant of the Essex Constabulary, who had charted the tracks.
“They seem to have turned up north towards Becontree,” he said. “As a matter of fact, a policeman at Becontree said he saw a large trolley come out of the mist and pass him, but that had a tilt on it and was going towards London. It was an army trolley, too, and was driven by a soldier.”
Mr. Reeder had lit a cigarette and was holding the flaming match in his hand, staring at it solemnly.
“Dear me!” he said, and dropped the match and watched it extinguish.
And then he began what seemed to be a foolish search of the ground, striking match after match.
“Isn’t there light enough for you, Mr. Reeder?” asked Simpson irritably.
The detective straightened his back and smiled. Only for a second was he amused, and then his long face went longer than ever.
“Poor fellow!” he said softly. “Poor fellow!”
“Who are you talking about?” demanded Simpson, but Mr. Reeder did not reply. Instead, he pointed up to the bridge, in the centre of which was an old and rusted water-wagon, the type which certain English municipalities still use. He climbed up to the bank and examined the iron tank, opened the hatches and groped inside, lighting matches to aid his examination.
“Is it empty?” asked Simpson.
“I am afraid it is,” said Mr. Reeder, and inspected the worn hose leading from its iron spindles. He descended the cutting more melancholy than ever.
“Have you thought how easy it is to disguise an ordinary army lorry?” he asked. “A tilt, I think the sergeant said, and on its way to London.”
“Do you think that was the gold-van?”
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“I’m certain,” he said.
“Where was it attacked?”
Mr. Reeder pointed to the mark of the wheels on the side of the road.
“There,” he said simply, and Simpson growled impatiently.
“Stuff! Nobody heard a shot fired, and you don’t think our people would go down without a fight, do you? They could have held their own against five times their number, and no crowd has been seen on this road!”
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“Nevertheless, this is where the convoy was attacked and overcome,” he said. “I think you ought to look for the trolley with the tilt, and get on to your Becontree man and get a closer description of the machine he saw.”
In a quarter of an hour the police car brought them to the little Essex village, and the policeman who had seen the wagon was interviewed. It was a few minutes before he went off duty, he said. There was a thick mist at the time, and he heard the rumble of the lorry wheels before it came into sight. He described it as a typical army wagon. So far as he could tell, it was grey, and had a black tilt with “W.D.” and a broad-arrow painted on the side, “W.D.” standing for War Department, the broad-arrow being the sign of Government. He saw one soldier driving and another sitting by his side. The back of the tilt was laced up and he could not see into the interior. The soldier as he passed had waved his hand in greeting, and the policeman had thought no more about the matter until the robbery of the gold convoy was reported.
“Yes, sir,” he said, in answer to Reeder’s inquiry, “I think it was loaded. It went very heavily on the road. We often get these trolleys coming up from Shoeburyness.”
Simpson had put through a telephone inquiry to the Barking police, who had seen the military wagon. But army convoys were no unusual sight in the region of the docks. Either that or one similar was seen entering the Blackwall Tunnel, but the Greenwich police, on the south side of the river, had failed to identify it, and from there on all trace of the lorry was lost.
“We’re probably chasing a shadow anyway,” said Simpson. “If your theory is right, Reeder—it can’t be right! They couldn’t have caught these men of ours so unprepared that somebody didn’t shoot, and there’s no sign of shooting.”
“There was no shooting,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head.
“Then where are the men?” asked Simpson.
“Dead,” said Mr. Reeder quietly.
It was at Scotland Yard, in the presence of an incredulous and horrified Commissioner, that Mr. J. G. Reeder reconstructed the crime.
“Flack is a chemist: I think I impressed it upon you. Did you notice, Simpson, on the bridge, across the cutting, was an old water-cart? I think you have since learnt that it does not belong to the farmer who owns the land, and that he has never seen it before. It may be possible to discover where that was purchased. In all probability you will find that it was bought a few days ago at the sale of some municipal stores. I noticed in The Times there was an advertisement of such a sale. Do you realise how easy it would be not only to store under pressure, but to make, in that tank, large quantities of a deadly gas, one important element of which is carbon monoxide? Suppose this, or, as it may prove, a more deadly gas, has been so stored, do you realise how simple a matter it would be on a still, breathless morning to throw a big hose over the bridge and fill the hollow with the gas? That is, I am sure, what happened. Whatever else was used, there is still carbon monoxide in the cutting, for when I dropped a match it was immediately extinguished, and every match I burnt near the ground went out. If the car had run right through and climbed the other slope of the cutting, the driver and the men inside the trolley might have escaped death. As it was, rendered momentarily unconscious, the driver turned his wheel and ran into the bank, stopping the trolley. They were probably dead before Flack and his associate, whoever it was, jumped down, wearing gas masks, lifted the driver back into the trolley and drove on.”
“And the farmer——” began the Commissioner.
“His death probably occurred some time after the trolley had passed. He also descended into that death hollow, but the speed at which his car was going carried him up nearer the cutting, though he must have been dead by the time he got out.”
He rose and stretched himself wearily.
“Now I think I will go and interview Miss Belman and set her mind at rest,” he said. “Did you send her to the hotel, as I asked you, Mr. Simpson?”
Simpson stared at him in blank astonishment.
“Miss Belman?” he said. “I haven’t seen Miss Belman!”
CHAPTER XIV
Her head in a whirl, Margaret Belman had stepped into the cab that was waiting at the door of Larmes Keep. The door was immediately slammed behind her, and the cab moved off. She saw her companion: he had shrunk into a corner of the landau, and greeted her with a little embarrassed grin. He did not speak until the cab was some distance from the house.
“My name’s Gray,” he said. “Mr. Reeder hadn’t a chance of introducing me. Sergeant Gray, C.I.D.”
“Mr. Gray, what does all this mean? This instrument I am to get…?”
Gray coughed. He knew nothing about the instrument, he explained, but his instructions were to put her into a car that would be waiting at the foot of the hill road.
“Mr. Reeder wants you to go up by car. You didn’t see Brill anywhere, did you?”
“Brill?” she frowned. “Who is Brill?”
He explained that there had been two officers inside the grounds, himself and the man he had mentioned.
“But what is happening? Is there anything wrong at Larmes Keep?” she asked.
She had no need to ask the question. That look in J. G. Reeder’s eyes had told her that something indeed was very wrong.
“I don’t know, miss,” said Gray diplomatically. “All I know is that the Chief Inspector is down here with a dozen men, and that looks like business. I suppose Mr. Reeder wanted to get you out of it.”
She didn’t “suppose”—she knew, and her heart beat a little quicker.
What was the mystery of Larmes Keep? Had all this to do with the disappearance of Ravini? She tried hard to think calmly and logically, but her thoughts were out of control.
The station fly stopped at the foot of the hill, and Gray jumped out. A little ahead of him she saw the tail light of a car drawn up by the side of the roadway.
“You’ve got the letter, miss? The car will take you straight to Scotland Yard, and Mr. Simpson will look after you.”
He followed her to the car and held open the door for her, and stood in the roadway watching till the tail light disappeared round a bend of the road.
It was a big, cosy landaulette, and Margaret made herself comfortable in the corner, pulled the rug over her knees, and settled down to the two hours’ journey. The air was a little close: she tried unsuccessfully to pull down one of the windows, then tried the other. Not only was there no glass to the windows, but the shutters were immovable. Something scratched her knuckle. She felt along the frame of the window.… Screws, recently inserted. It was a splinter of the raw wood which had cut her.
With growing uneasiness she felt for the inside handle of the door, but there was none. A search of the second door revealed a like state of affairs.
Her movements must have attracted the attention of the driver, for the glass panel was pushed back and a harsh voice greeted her.
“You can sit down and keep quiet! This isn’t Reeder’s car: I’ve sent it home.”
The voice went into a chuckle that made her blood run cold.
“You’re coming with me… to see life.… Reeder’s going to weep tears of blood. You know me, eh?… Reeder knows me. I wanted to get him to-night. But you’ll do, my dear.”
Suddenly the glass panel was shut to. He turned off the main road and was following a secondary, his object being, she guessed, to avoid the big towns and villages en route. She put out her hand and felt the wall of the car. It was an all-weather body with a leather back. If she had a knife she might cut——
She gasped as a thought struck her, and, reaching up, she felt the metal fastening that kept the leather hood attached. Exerting all her strength, she thrust back the flat hook and, bracing her feet against the front of the machine, dragged at the leather hood. A rush of cold air came in as the hood began slowly to collapse. The closed car was now an open car. She could afford to lose no time. The car was making thirty miles an hour, but she must take the risk of injury. Scrambling over the back of the hood, she gripped tight at the edge, and let herself drop into the roadway.
Although she turned a complete somersault, she escaped injury in some miraculous fashion, and, coming to her feet, cold with fear and trembling in every limb, she looked round for a way of escape. The hedge on her left was high and impenetrable. On her right was a low wooden fence, and over this she climbed as she heard the squeak of brakes and saw the car come to a standstill.
Even as she fled, she was puzzled to know what kind of land she was on. It was not cultivated; it was more like common land, for there was springy down beneath her feet, and clumps of gorse bushes sent out their spiny fingers to clutch at her dress as she flew past. She thought she heard the man hailing her, but fled on in the darkness.
Somewhere near at hand was the sea. She could smell the fragrance of it. Once when she stopped to take breath she could hear the distant thunder of the waves as they rolled up some unseen beach. She listened, almost deafened by the beating of her heart.
“Where are you? Come back, you fool…”
The voice was near at hand. Not a dozen yards away she saw a black figure moving, and had all her work to stifle the scream that rose in her throat. She crouched down behind a bush and waited, and then to her horror she saw a beam of light spring from the darkness. He had an electric lamp and was fanning it across the ground.
Detection was inevitable, and, springing to her feet, she ran, doubling from side to side in the hope of outwitting her pursuer. Now she found the ground sloping under her feet, and that gave her additional speed. She had need of it, for he saw her against the skyline, and came on after her, a babbling, shrieking fury of a man. And now capture seemed inevitable. She made one wild leap to escape his outstretched hands, and her feet suddenly trod on nothing. Before she could recover, she was falling, falling. She struck a bush, and the shock and pain of the impact almost made her faint. She was falling down a steep slope, and her wild hands clutched tree and sand and grass, and then, just as she had given up all hope, she found herself rolling over and over on a level plateau, and came to rest with one leg hanging over a sheer drop of two hundred feet. Happily, it was dark.
Margaret Belman did not realise how near to death she had been till the dawn came up.
Below her was the sea and a slither of yellow sand. She was looking into a little bay that held no human dwelling so far as she could see. This was not astonishing, for the beach was only approachable from the water. Somewhere on the other side of the northern bluff, she guessed, was Siltbury. Beneath her a sheer fall over the chalky face of the cliff; above her, a terribly steep slope, but which might be negotiated, she thought hopefully.
She had lost one shoe in her fall, and after a little search found this, so near to the edge of the cliff that she grew dizzy as she stooped to pick it up.
The plateau was about fifty yards long, in the shape of a half-moon, and was almost entirely covered with gorse bushes. The fact that she found dozens of nests was sufficient proof that this spot was not visited even by the most daring of cliff-climbers. She understood now the significance of the low rail on the side of the road, which evidently followed the sea-coast westwards for some miles. How far was she from Larmes Keep? she wondered—until the absurdity of considering such a matter occurred to her. How near was she to starvation and death was a more present problem.
Her task was to escape from the plateau. There was a chance that she might be observed from the sea, but it was a remote one. The few pleasure-boats that went out from Siltbury did not go westward; the fishing fleet invariably tacked south. Lying face downward, she looked over the edge, in the vain hope that she would find an easy descent, but none was visible. She was hungry, but, though she searched the nests, there were no eggs to be found.
There was nothing to be done but to make a complete exploration of the plateau. Westward it yielded nothing, but on the eastern side she discovered a scrub-covered slope which apparently led to yet another plateau, not so broad as the one she was on.
To slide down was an easy matter; to check herself so that she did not go beyond the plateau offered greater difficulty. With infinite labour she broke off two stout branches of a thick furze bush, and, using these as a skier uses her stick to check her progress, she began to shuffle down, feet first. She could move slowly enough when the face of the declivity was composed of sand or loam, or when there were friendly bushes to hold, but there were broad stretches of weatherworn rock to slide across, and on these the stick made no impression and her velocity increased at an alarming rate.
And then, to her horror, she discovered that she was not keeping direction; that, try as she did, she was slipping to the left of the plateau, and though she strove desperately to move further to the right, she made no progress. The bushes that littered the upper slope were more infrequent here. There was indication of a recent landslide, which might continue down to the sea-level or might end abruptly and disastrously over the edge of some steep cliff. Slipping, sometimes on her back, sometimes sideways, sometimes on her face, she felt her momentum increase with every yard she covered. The ends of the ski-sticks were frayed to feathery splinters, and already the desired plateau was above her. Turning her head, she saw the white face of it dropping to the unseen deeps.
Now she knew the worst. The slope twisted round a huge rock and dropped at an acute angle into the sea. Almost before she could realise the danger ahead, she was slipping faster and faster through the loam and sand, the centre of a new landslide she had created. Boulders of a terrifying size accompanied her—by a hair’s-breadth she escaped being crushed under one.
And then without warning she was shot into the air as from a catapult. She had a swift vision of tumbling green below, and in another second the water had closed over her and she was striking out with all her strength.…
It seemed almost an eternity before she came to the surface. Fortunately, she was a good swimmer, and, looking round, she saw that the yellow beach was less than fifty yards away. But it was fifty yards against a falling tide, and she was utterly exhausted when she dragged herself ashore and fell on the sand.
She ached from head to foot; her hands and limbs were lacerated. She felt that her body was one huge bruise. As she lay recovering her breath she heard one comforting sound, the splash of falling water. Half-way down the cliff face was a spring, and, staggering across the beach, she drank eagerly from her cupped hands. She was parched; her throat was so dry that she could hardly articulate. Hunger she might bear, but thirst was unendurable. She might remain alive for days, supposing she were not discovered before that time.
There was now no need for her to make a long reconnaissance of the beach: the way of escape lay open to her. A water-hollowed tunnel led through the bluff and showed her yet another beach beyond. Siltbury was not in sight. She had no idea how far she was from that desirable habitation of human people, and did not trouble to think. After she had satisfied her thirst she took off her shoes and stockings and made for the tunnel.
The second bay was larger and the beach longer. There were, she found, small masses of rocks jutting far into the sea that had to be negotiated with bare feet. The beach was longer than she had thought, and so far as she could see there was no outlet, nor did the cliff diminish in height. She had expected to find a cliff path, and this hope was strengthened when she discovered the rotting hull of a boat drawn high and dry on the beach. It was, she judged, about eight o’clock in the morning. She had started wet through, but the warm September sun dried her rags—for rags they were. She had all the sensations of a shipwrecked mariner on a desert island, and after a while the loneliness and absence of all kinds of human society began to get on her nerves.
Before she reached the end of the beach she saw that the only way into the next bay was by swimming to where the rocky barrier was low enough to be climbed. She could with great comfort to herself have discarded what remained of her clothes, but beyond these rocks might lie civilisation, and, tying her wet shoes and stockings together, she made fast her shoes, and, knotting them about her waist, waded into the sea and swam steadily, looking for a likely place to land. This she found—a step-shaped pyramid of rocks that looked easier to negotiate than in fact they were. By dint of hard climbing she came to the summit.
The beach here was shorter, the cliff considerably higher. Across the shoulder of rock running to the sea she saw the white houses of Siltbury, and the sight gave her courage. Descending from the rocky ridge was even more difficult than climbing, and she was grateful when at last she sat upon a flat ledge and dangled her bruised feet in the water.
Swimming back to the land taxed her strength to the full. It was nearly an hour before her feet touched firm sand and she staggered up the beach. Here she rested, until the pangs of hunger drove her towards the last visible obstacle.
There was one which was not visible. After a quarter of an hour’s walk she found her way barred by a deep sea river which ran under the overhung cliff. She had seen this place before: where was it? And then she remembered, with an exclamation.
This was the cave that Olga had told her about, the cave that ran under Larmes Keep. Shading her eyes, she looked up. Yes, there was the little landslide; part of the wall that had been carried away projected from a heap of rubble on the cliff side.
Suddenly Margaret saw something which made her breath come faster. On the edge of the deep channel which the water had cut in the sand was the print of a boot, a large, square-toed boot with a rubber heel. It had been recently made. She looked farther along the channel and saw another: it led to the mouth of the cave. On either side of the rugged entrance was a billow of firm sand left by the retreating waters, and again she saw the footprint. A visitor to the cave, perhaps, she thought. Presently he would come out and she would explain her plight, though her appearance left little need for explanation.
She waited, but there was no sign of the man. Stooping, she tried to peer into its dark depths. Perhaps, if she were inside out of the light, she could see better. She walked gingerly along the sand ledge, but as yet her eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness, revealed nothing.
She took another step, passed into the entrance of the cave; and then, from somewhere behind, a bare arm was flung round her shoulder, a big hand closed over her mouth. In terror she struggled madly, but the man held her in a grip of iron, and then her senses left her and she sank limply into his arms.
CHAPTER XV
Mr. Reeder was not an emotional man. For the first time in his life Inspector Simpson learnt that behind the calm and imperturbable demeanour of the Public Prosecutor’s chief detective lay an immense capacity for violent language. He fired a question at the officer, and Simpson nodded.
“Yes, the car returned. The driver said that he had orders to go back to London. I thought you had changed your plans. You’re staying with this bullion robbery, Reeder?”
Mr. Reeder glared across the desk, and despite his hardihood Inspector Simpson winced.
“Staying with hell!” hissed Reeder.
Simpson was seeing the real and unsuspected J. G. Reeder and was staggered.
“I’m going back to interview that monkey-faced criminologist, and I’m going to introduce him to forms of persuasion which have been forgotten since the Inquisition!”
Before Simpson could reply, Mr. Reeder was out of the door and flying down the stairs.
* * * * *
It was the hour after lunch, and Daver was sitting at his desk, twiddling his thumbs, when the door was pushed open unceremoniously and Mr. Reeder came in. He did not recognise the detective, for a man who in a moment of savage humour slices off his side-whiskers brings about an amazing change in his appearance. And with the vanishing of those ornaments there had been a remarkable transformation in Mr. Reeder’s demeanour. Gone were his useless pince-nez which had fascinated a generation of law-breakers; gone the gentle, apologetic voice, the shyly diffident manner.
“I want you, Daver!”
“Mr. Reeder!” gasped the yellow-faced man, and turned a shade paler.
Reeder slammed the door to behind him, pulled up a chair with a crash, and sat down opposite the hotel-proprietor.
“Where is Miss Belman?”
“Miss Belman?”
Astonishment was expressed in every feature. “Good gracious, Mr. Reeder, surely you know? She went up to get your dactyscope—is that the word? I intended asking you to be good enough to let me see this——”
“Where—is—Miss—Belman?—Spill it, Daver, and save yourself a lot of unhappiness.”
“I swear to you, my dear Mr. Reeder——”
Reeder leaned across the table and rang the bell.
“Do—do you want anything?” stammered the manager.
“I want to speak to Mrs. Flack—you call her Mrs. Burton, but Mrs. Flack is good enough for me.”
Daver’s face was ghastly now. He had become suddenly wizened and old.
“I’m one of the few people who happen to know that John Flack is married,” said Reeder; “one of the few who know he has a daughter! The question is, does John Flack know all that I know?”
He glowered down at the shrinking man.
“Does he know that after he was sent to Broadmoor his sneaking worm of a secretary, his toady and parasite and slave, decided to carry on in the Flack tradition, and used his influence and his knowledge to compel the unfortunate daughter of mad John Flack to marry him?”
A frenzied, almost incoherent voice wailed:
“For God’s sake… don’t talk so loud…!”
But Mr. Reeder went on.
“Before Flack went to prison he put into the care of his daughter his famous encyclopaedia of crime. She was the only person he trusted: his wife was a weak slave whom he had always despised. Mr. Daver, the secretary, got possession of those books a year after Flack was put in gaol. He organised his own little gang at Flack’s old headquarters, which were nominally bought by you. Ever since you knew John Flack was planning an escape—an escape in which you had to assist him—you’ve been living in terror that he would discover how you had double-crossed him. Tell me I’m a liar and I’ll beat your miserable little head off! Where is Margaret Belman?”
“I don’t know,” said the man sullenly. “Flack had a car waiting for her: that’s all I know.”
Something in his tone, something in the shifty slant of his eyes, infuriated Reeder. He stretched out a long arm, gripped the man by the collar and jerked him savagely across the desk. As a feat of physical strength it was remarkable; as a piece of propaganda of the frightfulness that was to follow, it had a strange effect upon Daver. He lay limp for a second, and then, with a quick jerk of his collar, he wrenched himself from Reeder’s grip and fled from the room, slamming the door behind him. By the time Reeder had kicked an overturned chair from his path and opened the door, Daver had disappeared.
When Reeder reached the hall it was empty. He met none of the servants (he learnt later that the majority had been discharged that morning, paid a month’s wages and sent to town by the first train). He ran out of the main entrance on to the lawn, but the man he sought was not in sight. The other side of the house drew blank. One of the detectives on duty in the grounds, attracted by Mr. Reeder’s hasty exit, came running into the vestibule as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Nobody came out, sir,” he said, when Reeder explained the object of his search.
“How many men are there in the grounds?” asked Reeder shortly. “Four? Bring them into the house. Lock every door, and bring back a crowbar with you. I am going to do a little investigation that may cost me a lot of money. No sign of Brill?”
“No, sir,” said the detective, shaking his head sadly. “Poor old Brill! I’m afraid they’ve done him. The young lady get to town all right, sir?”
Mr. Reeder scowled at him.
“The young lady—what do you know about her?” he asked sharply.
“I saw her to the car,” said Detective Gray.
Reeder gripped him by the coat and led him along the vestibule.
“Now tell me, and tell me quickly, what sort of car was it?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Reeder,” said the man in surprise. “An ordinary kind of car, except that the windows were shuttered, but I thought that was your idea.”
“What sort of body was it?”
The man described the machine as accurately as possible; he had only made a superficial inspection. He thought, however, it was an all-weather body. The news was no more than Reeder had expected—neither added to nor diminished his anxiety. When Gray had gone back to his companions and the door was locked, Mr. Reeder, from the landing above, called them up to the first floor. A very thorough search had already been made by the police that morning; but, so far, Daver’s room had escaped anything but superficial attention. It was situated at the far end of the corridor, and was locked when the search-party arrived. It took less than two minutes to force an entrance. Mr. Daver’s suite consisted of a sitting-room, a bedroom, and a handsomely-fitted bathroom. There was a number of books in the former, a small Empire table on which were neatly arranged a pile of accounts, but there was nothing in the way of documents to reveal his relationship with the Flack gang.
The bedroom was beautifully furnished. Here again, from Reeder’s point of view, the search was unsatisfactory.
The suite formed one of the angles of the old Keep, and Reeder was leaving the room when his eyes, roving back for a last look round, were arrested by the curious position of a brown leather divan in one corner of the room. He went back and tried to pull it away from the wall, but apparently it was a fixture. He kicked at the draped side and it gave forth a hollow wooden sound.
“What has he got in that divan?” he asked.
After considerable search Gray found a hidden bolt, and, this thrown back, the top of the divan came up like the lid of a box. It was empty.
“The rum thing about this house, sir,” said Gray as they went downstairs together, “is that one always seems on the point of making an important discovery, and it always turns out to be a dud.”
Reeder did not reply: he was too preoccupied with his growing distress. After a while he spoke.
“There are many queer things about this house——” he began.
And then there came a sound which froze the marrow of his bones. It was a shrill shriek; the scream of a human soul in agony.
“Help!… Help, Reeder!”
It came from the direction of the room he had left, and he recognised Daver’s voice.
“Oh, God…!”
The sound of a door slamming. Reeder took the stairs three at a time, the detectives following him. Daver’s door he had left ajar, but in the short time he had been downstairs it had been shut and bolted.
“The crowbar, quick!”
Gray had left it below, and, flying down, returned in a few seconds.
No sound came from the room. Pushing the claw of the crowbar between architrave and door at the point where he had seen the bolt, Reeder levered it back and the door flew open with a crash. One step into the apartment and then he stood stock still, glaring at the bed, unable to believe his eyes.
On the silken counterpane, sprawled in an indescribable attitude, his round, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, was Daver. Mr. Reeder knew that he was dead before he saw the terrible wound, or the brown-hilted knife that stuck out from his side.
Reeder listened at the heart—felt the pulse of the warm wrist, but it was a waste of time, as he knew. He made a quick search of the clothing. There was an inside pocket in the waistcoat, and here he found a thick pad of banknotes.
“All thousands,” said Mr. Reeder, “and ninety-five of them. What’s in that packet?”
It was a little cardboard folder, and contained a steamship ticket from Southampton to New York, made out in the name of “Sturgeon”; and in the coat pocket Reeder found a passport which was stamped by the American Embassy and bore the same name.
“He was ready to jump—but he delayed it too long,” he said. “Poor devil!”
“How did he get here, sir?” asked Gray. “They couldn’t have carried him——”
“He was alive enough when we heard him,” said Reeder curtly. “He was being killed when we heard him shriek. There is a way into this room we haven’t discovered yet. What’s that?”
It was the sound of a muffled thud, as if a heavy door had been closed. It seemed to come from somewhere in the room. Reeder took the crowbar from the detective’s hand and attacked the panel behind the settee. Beneath was solid wall. He ripped down another strip, with no more enlightening result. Again he opened the divan. Its bottom was made of a thin layer of oak. This too was ripped off; beneath this again was the stone floor.
“Strip it,” said Reeder, and when this was done he stepped inside the divan and seesawed gingerly from one end to the other.
“There’s nothing here,” he said. “Go downstairs and ’phone Mr. Simpson. Tell him what has happened.”
When the man had gone he resumed his examination of the body. Daver had carried, attached to one of the buttons of his trousers, a long gold chain. This was gone: he found it broken off close to the link, and the button itself hanging by a thread. It was whilst he was making his examination that his hand touched a bulky package in the dead man’s hip pocket. It was a worn leather case, filled with scraps of memoranda, mostly undecipherable. They were written in a formless hand, generally with pencil, and the writing was large and irregular, whilst the paper used for these messages was of every variety. One was a scrawled chemical formula; another was a brief note which ran:
“House opposite Reeder to let. Engage or get key. Communicate usual place.”
Some of these notes were understandable, some beyond Mr. Reeder’s comprehension. But he came at last to a scrap which swept the colour from his cheeks. It was written in the same hand on the selvedge of a newspaper, and was crumpled into a ball:
“Belman fell over cliff 6 miles west Larme. Send men to get body before police discover.”
Mr. J. G. Reeder read and the room spun round.
CHAPTER XVI
When Margaret Belman recovered consciousness she was in the open air, lying in a little recess, effectively hidden from the mouth of the cave. A man in a torn shirt and ragged trousers was standing by her side, looking down at her. As she opened her eyes she saw him put his finger to his mouth, as though to signal silence. His hair was unkempt; streaks of dried blood zigzagged down his face, and the hair above, she saw, was matted. Yet there was a certain kindliness in his disfigured face which reassured her as he knelt down and, making a funnel of his hands, whispered:
“Be quiet! I’m sorry to have frightened you, but I was scared you’d shout if you saw me. I suppose I look pretty awful.”
His grin was very reassuring.
“Who are you?” she asked in the same tone.
“My name’s Brill, C.I.D.”
“How did you get here?” she asked.
“I’d like to be able to tell you,” he answered grimly. “You’re Miss Belman, aren’t you?”
She nodded. He lifted his head, listening, and, flattening himself against the rock, craned out slowly and peeped round the edge of his hiding-place. He did not move for about five minutes, and by this time she had risen to her feet. Her knees were dreadfully shaky; she felt physically sick, and once again her mouth was dry and parched.
Apparently satisfied, he crept back to her side.
“I was left on duty in Reeder’s room. I thought I heard him calling from the window—you can’t distinguish voices when they whisper—and asking me to come out quick, as he wanted me. I’d hardly dropped to the ground before—cosh!” He touched his head gingerly and winced. “That’s all I remember till I woke up and found myself drowning. I’ve been in the cave all the morning—naturally.”
“Why naturally?” she whispered.
“Because the beach is covered with water at high tide and the cave’s the only place. It is a little too densely populated for me just now.”
She stared at him in amazement.
“Populated? What do you mean?”
“Whisper!” he warned her, for she had raised her voice.
Again he listened.
“I’d like to know how they get down—Daver and that old devil.”
She felt herself going white.
“You mean… Flack?”
He nodded.
“Flack’s only been here about an hour, and how he got down God knows. I suppose our fellows are patrolling the house?”
“The police?” she asked in astonishment.
“Flack’s headquarters—didn’t you know it? I suppose you wouldn’t. I thought Reeder—I mean Mr. Reeder—told you everything.”
He was rather a talkative young man, more than a little exuberant at finding himself alive, and with good reason.
“I’ve been dodging in and out the cave all the morning. They’ve got a sentry on duty up there”—he nodded towards Siltbury. “It’s a marvellous organisation. They held up a gold convoy this morning and got away with it—I heard the old man telling his daughter. The funny thing is that though he wasn’t there to superintend the steal, his plan worked out like clockwork. It’s a curious thing, any crook will work for old Flack. He’s employed the cleverest people in the business, and Ravini is the only man that ever sold him.”
“Do you know what has happened to Mr. Ravini?” she asked, and he shook his head.
“He’s dead, I expect. There are a lot of things in the cave that I haven’t seen, and some that I have. They’ve got a petrol boat inside… as big as a church!… the boat, I mean… hush!”
Again he shrank against the cliff. Voices were coming nearer and nearer. Perhaps it was the peculiar acoustics of the cave which gave him the illusion that the speakers were standing almost at their elbow. Brill recognised the thin, harsh voice of the old man and grinned again, but it was not a pleasant smile to see.
“There’s something wrong, something damnably wrong. What is it, Olga?”
“Nothing, father.”
Margaret recognised the voice of Olga Crewe.
“You have been very good and very patient, my love, and I would not have planned to come out, but I wanted to see you settled in life. I am very ambitious for you, Olga.”
A pause, and then:
“Yes, father.”
Olga Crewe’s voice was a little dispirited, but apparently the old man did not notice this.
“You are to have the finest husband in the land, my dear. You shall have a house that any princess would envy. It shall be of white marble with golden cupolas… you shall be the richest woman in the land, Olga. I have planned this for you. Night after night as I lay in bed in that dreadful place I said to myself: ‘I must go out and settle Olga’s future.’ That is why I came out—only for that reason. All my life I have worked for you.”
“Mother says——” began the girl.
“Pah!” Old John Flack almost spat the word. “An unimaginative commoner, with the soul of a housekeeper! She has looked after you well? Good. All the better for her. I would never have forgiven her if she had neglected you. And Daver? He has been respectful? He has given you all the money you wanted?”
“Yes, father.”
Margaret thought she detected a catch in the girl’s voice.
“Daver is a good servant. I will make his fortune. The scum of the gutter—but faithful. I told him to be your watch-dog. I am pleased with him. Be patient a little while longer. I am going to see all my dreams come true.”
The voice of the madman was tender, so transfigured by love and pride that it seemed to be a different man who was speaking. Then his voice changed again.
“The Colonel will be back to-night. He is a trustworthy man… Gregory also. They shall be paid like ambassadors. You must bear with me a little while, Olga. All these unpleasant matters will be cleared up. Reeder we shall dispose of. To-morrow at high tide we leave…”
The sound of the voices receded until they became an indistinguishable murmur. Brill looked round at the girl and smiled again.
“Can you beat him?” he asked admiringly. “Crazy as a barn coot! But he has the cleverest brain in London: even Reeder says that. God! I’d give ten years’ salary and all my chance of promotion for a gun!”
“What shall we do?” she asked after a long silence.
“Stay here till the tide turns, then we’ll have to take our chance in the cave. We’d be smashed to pieces if we waited on the beach.”
“There’s no way up the cliff?”
He shook his head.
“There’s a way out through the cave if we can only find it,” he said. “One way? A dozen! I tell you that this cliff is like a honeycomb. One of these days it will collapse like froth on a glass of beer! I heard Daver say so, and the mad fellow agreed. Mad? I wish I had his brain! He’s going to dispose of Reeder, is he? The cemeteries are full of people who’ve tried to dispose of Reeder!”