CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The detective left the Yard a few minutes after eleven, and, turning to his left, walked towards Blackfriars. To Surefoot Smith that long ribbon of pavement which runs without a break from Scotland Yard to Savoy Hill was a garden of thought. At headquarters somebody with a florid mind had christened it his "Boulevard of Cogitation." Summer or winter, rain or fine, Surefoot Smith found here the solution of all his problems. Men had been hanged, swindlers had been sent down to the shades, very commonplace happenings had assumed a sinister importance, and, by contrast, seemingly guilty men and women had had their innocence established in the course of Surefoot Smith's midnight recreation.
There were very few pedestrians at this hour of the night. The courting couples, for some strange reason, chose the better lighted river side of the road. Cars flashed past occasionally. There was an irregular procession of street cars at long intervals, and once an occasional night hawk shuffled along the kerb-side in search of a stray cigarette end.
Near one of the entrances to the Embankment Gardens a saloon car was drawn up by the kerb. Glancing inside, more from habit than curiosity, Surefoot saw the figure of a woman sitting, and continued his stroll.
He paced on, turning over the question of Binny in his mind. The greater problem was solved; the more dangerous and delicate business of effecting the man's arrest had yet to be accomplished. He was uneasy, which was not usual. Surefoot Smith was a great dreamer. He visualised the most fantastic possibilities, and because he allowed his thoughts the fullest and widest range, he was more successful than many of his fellows. For there is this about dreaming, that it throws the commonplace possibilities into sharp relief, and it is on the commonplace possibilities that most detectives rely.
He turned on his tracks at Savoy Hill and walked slowly back towards the Yard. By this time the reports would be coming in from the coast, though it was still a little too early for any but Southampton, where an extra vigilance was being exercised. A German-American liner, which was due at that port that night, was taking in passengers for Hamburg, and this fact had necessitated sending a second batch of watchers to the port.
He saw the car still standing by the side of the road. It was no great distance from the Lost Property Office and it was likely that the lady had sent her chauffeur in search of something she had left behind her in a cab in the course of the day. As he drew near her he saw that the woman was standing by the open door of the machine—a middle-aged lady, he gathered by her plumpness.
To his surprise she addressed him in a high-pitched voice.
"I wonder if you could fetch a policeman for me?"
A staggering request to make of one of the recognised heads of Scotland Yard.
"What's wrong?" asked Surefoot Smith.
She stepped aside from the door.
"My chauffeur," she said. "He has come back rather the worse for drink, and I can't get him out of the car."
A drunken chauffeur is an offence to all good policemen. Surefoot opened the door wider and peered in.
He saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. His consciousness of life went out like a snuffed candle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
His head was aching terribly. He tried to move his hands and found movement restricted. He did not realise why for a long time.
The car was moving with great rapidity, far beyond the legalised speed limit. There were no lights. By the whir of the wheels he guessed he was on a newly made road. It was queer that this fact should have appeared so important to him. He could remember nothing, knew nothing, except that he was lying curled up on the floor of a motor-car which was moving rapidly and smoothly. Then he stopped thinking again for a long time and was glad of the unconsciousness which obliterated this throbbing head of his.
The car was now bumping over an uneven surface. It was that which roused him to consciousness. He blinked up, tried to raise himself, felt gingerly along his wrists and recognised the shape of the handcuffs—his own; he always carried an unauthorised pair in his coat pocket. Unauthorised, because they were not of the regulation type—they were American handcuffs which were so much easier to put on—a tap on the wrist and the D swung round and was fast.
Somebody had handcuffed him. Somebody had tied his legs together with a silk scarf. He could feel it, but he could not reach the knot. And then he remembered the woman and the car and the drunken chauffeur who was not there.
The car was bumping painfully. It seemed to be passing over a ploughed field or, at best, a cart track. It was the latter, he found when the car stopped.
A little while later the door was pulled open; he saw the outlines of the "woman" and knew exactly who "she" was.
There was a little cottage a few yards away; one of those monstrous little boxes of red brick and tiling that disfigure the countryside since the war. His coat collar was gripped and he was jerked out into the road, falling on his knees.
"Get up, you——," hissed a voice, and what followed was not ladylike.
He was half-dragged and half-pushed towards the cottage; the door was flung open and he was thrust into a dark interior. It smelt of drying mortar and plaster and new wood. He guessed it was unfurnished. He waited awhile. The door was locked on the inside and he was again urged forward into a room so completely dark that he knew the window was shuttered. He fell on the floor. It was amazing that he walked at all with his legs bound, as they were, with the silk scarf.
As he lay there, a match spluttered, there was a tinkle of an oil lamp chimney being taken off, and presently the room was illuminated by the soft glow of a kerosene lamp. The only articles of furniture in the room were two sofas, a chair, and a kitchen table. Wooden shutters covered the window, as he had suspected. There were neither hangings nor curtains of any description, and the table was innocent of cloth.
His captor pulled the chair forward, sat down, his hands on his knees, and surveyed him.
Surefoot would never have recognised this yellow-faced old woman with a grey wig and a long fur coat. The wig was now a little askew—it gave him a comical but terrible appearance. He was sensitive to ridicule, took off the wig and hat with one movement and appeared even more grotesque with his bald head and his yellow face.
"Got you," said Binny huskily.
He was grinning, but there was no merriment in that smile.
"Mr. Surefoot Smith is not so sure on his feet after all."
The jest seemed to amuse him, and then, as though conscious of the attitude which the situation demanded, he assumed that affected mincing tone which had belonged to Mr. Washington Wirth.
"I built this little place a couple of years ago. I thought it might be useful, but I haven't been here for a long time. I am leaving the country. Perhaps you would like to buy it, Mr. Smith? It's an excellent retreat for a professional gentleman who wishes to be quiet, and you are going to be very quiet!"
From his pocket he took an automatic pistol and laid it on the table beside him, and, stooping down, he lifted Surefoot and sat him in a corner of the room. Bending down, he unfastened the sagging silk scarf about his ankles and jerked off the detective's shoes, throwing them into another corner of the room. He hesitated a second, then loosened Surefoot's collar.
"You are not hurt, my dear Mr. Smith," he remarked. "A rubber truncheon applied to the back of the neck does not kill. It is, I admit, very uncomfortable. There was once a copper in Cincinnati who tried that treatment on me. It was two months before I was well enough to shoot him. You didn't know of my little retreat?"
Surefoot's mouth was dry, his head was whizzing, but he was entirely without fear, though he realised his case was a desperate one.
"Oh yes, I did, Binny," he said. "This place is about a hundred yards from the Bath Road near Taplow. You bought the ground four years ago, and paid a hundred and fifty pounds for it."
For a second Binny was thrown off his balance.
"This house was searched last week by my police officers, and is now under the observation of the Buckinghamshire police. You have got another cottage of a similar character in Wiltshire."
"Oh, indeed?"
Binny was completely taken aback. He was rattled too. Surefoot saw this and pushed home his advantage.
"What's the good of being a fool? We have got no evidence against you for murder. The only evidence is that you have forged Hervey Lyne's cheques. The worst that can happen to you is a seven stretch."
Again he put his finger upon the one great doubt which obsessed the man.
"You may get an extra year for this," said Surefoot, "but what's a year? Get me some water. There's a kitchen just behind this room. Let the tap run: the water was rusty when I was here last week. There's a tin cup on the dresser."
The instinct to obey is stronger than the instinct to command. Binny went out and returned with the tin cup and put it to the detective's lips.
"Now take these handcuffs off and we'll have a little talk. Why didn't you bring Mike Hennessey here instead of——" He realised his colossal error as soon as the words were spoken.
Binny stepped back with a snarl.
"Don't want me for murder, eh? You double-crossing busy! I will show you what I want you for."
His hand moved towards the gun on the table.
Binny took up the pistol and examined it carefully.
"I have always wanted to tell you where you get off, Smith——" he began.
"Your wish has come true," said Surefoot coolly. "But you'd better work fast."
"I'll work fast enough," said the other grimly.
He slipped the gun into his pocket, picked up the scarf, and retied his prisoner's ankles.
He then took off his fur coat and relieved himself of his woman's garments. From a theatre trunk he retrieved an old suit, which he put on.
Surefoot Smith watched him interestedly.
"I gather you have some hard work to do?" he said.
"Pretty hard," said the other, and added significantly: "The ground here is fairly soft. You don't get down to clay till you have dug six feet."
If he expected to terrify his captive he was disappointed.
"Why not let me do it?" said Smith. "You are fat and out of condition. Digging my own grave is a hobby of mine."
For a second Binny seemed to be considering this suggestion.
"No, I'll do it," he said, "fat or not fat."
"Why bother?" Surefoot's voice was almost airy. "As soon as I am missing they will search here and in Wiltshire. I gather your object is to leave no trace. You are not sure now whether we could convict you for murder, are you? If you kill a police officer you are certain to be hanged. Every man in Scotland Yard will turn out to find evidence against you. People who were sleeping in their beds will swear that they saw you cosh me."
He libelled the best police force in the world without shame.
"You might get away with Hennessey," Surefoot went on, "and old Lyne and Tickler, but you could not get away with me. They will come along and search this ground, which, if I remember rightly, is grass-grown, and unless you do a little bit of artistic turfing they will find me and that will be the finish of you."
Binny paused at the door and turned with an ugly grin on his face.
"I used to know a copper who talked like you, but he talked himself into hell, see?"
He went out and closed the door behind him.
Surefoot Smith sat, thinking very hard. He made an effort to break the single link that bound the two cuffs together. It was certainly a painful process, probably impossible. By drawing up his legs and separating them at the knees he could reach the trebly knotted silk scarf. It was difficult, but he succeeded in loosening one knot, and was at work on the second when he heard the man returning along the bare boards of the passage.
Binny was finding his task more difficult than he had anticipated. His face was wet with perspiration. He groped in the trunk, took out a bottle of whisky, and, removing the patent top, took a long drink.
"Is it courage or strength you're looking for?" asked Surefoot.
"You'll see," growled the other, glaring down at the helpless man malignantly.
The butts of two automatics stuck out of his trousers pockets. Surefoot eyed them longingly.
Binny was half-way to the door when a thought struck him, and he turned back and examined the knots of the scarf.
"Oh, you've undone one, have you. We'll see about that."
Again he searched the trunk and found a length of cord. He slipped it round the link of the handcuffs and knotted the cord firmly behind the detective's neck, so that his hands were drawn up almost to his chin.
"You look funny—almost as if you were praying!" remarked Binny. "I shan't keep you long."
He went out of the room on this promise.
Sprawling there helplessly, Surefoot heard the hoot of cars as they passed. He was, he knew, about a hundred yards from the main road, but it was a road along which, day and night, traffic was continually passing.
The possibility that the Buckinghamshire police would search this little cottage was very remote, unless somebody at Scotland Yard had a brain-wave that this was the most likely place to which the prisoner would be taken. But Scotland Yard might not even miss him. He was an erratic man; when he was engaged in an important case he would absent himself from headquarters for days together, leaving his chiefs fuming. The search would not begin until Binny was well out of the country.
He watched the smoky oil lamp burning; the flame had been turned on too high and one side of the glass chimney was smoked.
Binny was out for a getaway; he would leave no traces. Even the murder would not be committed in the house.
Half an hour, an hour passed, and he heard the heavy feet of the man coming for him, and knew that the hour was at hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Scotland Yard had missed Surefoot Smith in the sense that the negative reports which had been taken to his room had not been read or attended to. The fact that they were negative would have justified the officer on duty accepting the situation, but for the peculiar conscientiousness of a young police officer who reported to the station at Cannon Row, which is part of Scotland Yard, that a blue saloon car, driven by a woman, had disregarded his stop signal at the junction of Westminster Bridge and the Embankment, and had driven on the wrong side of the road. He called on it to stop, and, when that failed, had taken its number.
Ordinarily the question of a technical offence of this character would have been left over till the morning, but whilst he was making his statement a Member of Parliament came into the station to report the loss of a blue saloon car, which had been taken from the front of his club in Pall Mall. It had been standing on a rank, against all traffic rules, and he had actually been a witness of the theft.
"It was a man dressed as a woman," was his startling conclusion.
"What makes you think that, sir?" asked the inspector in charge.
"As he got in, the top of the car, which has a very low body, knocked his hat off. It was a bald-headed man with a yellow face like somebody suffering from jaundice."
The inspector sat bolt upright. All England was looking for a bald-headed man with a jaundiced face, and in a few moments the wires were humming.
Again it was a traffic policeman who supplied information, and again it was Binny's anxiety to make a quick run out of London that betrayed him. He had been held up near Heston, where a tramline crosses the main arterial road. He narrowly escaped collision with the tram and the car skidded. The policeman walked across the road to examine the licence of the driver, whose engine had stopped. The policeman distinctly saw a stout woman driver, but before he could ask a question the engine had been restarted and the car moved on. This must have happened in the second period of Surefoot's unconsciousness.
It was not until an hour and a half after the enquiry had been sent out that the traffic policeman's report was received. By this time a "hurry up" call for Surefoot had failed to locate him. Moreover, he had left on his table at Scotland Yard a half-finished sheet of notes.
Now Surefoot never in any circumstances left his notes behind him; and another significant fact was that he had not handed the key of his room to the officer at the door, a practice which he invariably followed, however hurried might be his departure.
His habit of taking a walk was common knowledge. He had been seen walking towards Savoy Hill. The policeman on duty at the foot of the hill had also seen him turn back. Then somebody remembered the blue motor-car that had been standing by the side of the road.
By the time these enquiries had been completed every detective in Scotland Yard had been assembled on the instructions of the hastily summoned chief.
"He may be heading for the coast. What is more likely is that he's on his way to one of those houses of his," said the Chief Constable. "Get the Buckinghamshire and Salisbury police on the 'phone, and, to make absolutely sure, send squad cars right away to both places."
One of the first people who had been interrogated was Dick Allenby. It was known that Surefoot was a friend of his, and Surefoot was an inveterate gossiper, who loved nothing better than to sit up till three in the morning with a friendly and sympathetic audience. Dick Allenby's arrival at the Yard coincided with the departure of the first squad car for Salisbury.
"We may be chasing moonbeams," said the Chief Constable; "very likely old Surefoot will turn up in about a quarter of an hour, but I am taking no unnecessary risks."
"But he would never get bluffed," said Dick scornfully.
The Chief shook his head.
"I don't know. This fellow has had a pretty hectic experience in America, and it will not be the first person he has taken for a ride in this country."
Of one thing he was sure—that the threat of a revolver would not have induced Surefoot to get into that car.
He looked at his watch; it was half-past one, and he shook his head.
"I wish the night were over," he said.
From that remark Dick sensed all that the other feared.
Surefoot Smith had less than half a minute to do his thinking and to decide on one of the dozen plans—most of them impracticable—that were spinning in his mind.
The door opened slowly and Binny came in. He wiped his forehead on a big handkerchief he took out of his pocket, and sat down.
"You will come a little walk with me, my friend," he said pleasantly.
He took the bottle from the table, swallowed a generous drink, and wiped his mouth. Stooping, he untied the scarf that bound Surefoot's ankles and jerked him to his feet.
Surefoot Smith rose unsteadily. His head was swimming, but the terrific nature of the moment brought about his instant recovery. Binny was standing by the door, fingering his gun. He had fixed to the end of the barrel an egg-shaped object, the like of which Surefoot had never seen before, and he found himself wondering how Dick Allenby, who was interested in silencers and who had asserted so often that a silencer could not be used on an automatic, because of the backfire, would reconcile this freakish thing with his theories.
Surefoot walked to the table and stood, resting his manacled hands on its deal surface.
"Saying a prayer or something?" mocked Binny.
"You don't want anybody to know I have been here, do you? You don't want to leave any trace, and that's why you don't kill me in this room?"
"That's the idea," said the other cheerfully.
"If you had a few hundred people rushing in this direction and asking questions, that would spoil your plan, wouldn't it?"
Binny's eyes narrowed.
"What's the idea?" he demanded.
He took one step towards his prisoner, when Surefoot lifted the lamp and flung it into the open hamper. There was a crash as the glass reservoir broke, a flicker of light, and then a huge flame shot up towards the ceiling.
Binny stood, paralysed to inaction, and in the next moment Surefoot had flung himself upon the man. He drove straight at Binny's face with his clenched hands. The man ducked and the blow missed him. Something exploded in the detective's face; he felt the sting of the powder and heard an expelled cartridge "ting" against the wall.
He struck again, striving to bring the steel handcuffs on to the man's head. Binny twisted aside, but did not wholly escape the impact of the shock. The gun fell from his hand on to the floor.
The room was now a mass of flames; the fire had licked through the thin plaster of the wall and the laths were burning like paper. The atmosphere was thick with acrid smoke, the heat already intolerable.
Again Surefoot struck and again Binny dodged. Surefoot had kicked the pistol out of reach—kicked it into the mass of flames that were spurting from the bottom of the canvas-covered trunk. The door was open and Binny darted out of the room, trying to close it after him, but Smith's shoulders were in the way. Jerking the door wider, he stumbled into the passage and hurled himself at the murderer.
The only hope was to keep at close quarters. Binny had another pistol, had it half out of his pocket, when Surefoot pinned him against the hot wall, and, bracing his feet, exerted all his strength to crush him there. In this position it was impossible to hit the man. In the half-light he saw Binny reaching out towards the front door and edged him nearer to facilitate his task. As the door was flung open and the air came rushing in, the hum of the fire became a roar; flames were flung out like red and yellow banners whipped by the wind.
Binny was trying to pull himself clear of the hands that held him by the singlet; striving desperately to pull out his second pistol. His breath was coming in shrill whistles; he was frightened, had lost all his old reserve of courage. He wriggled desperately to escape the pressure of the heavy figure that was jammed against him, and at last, by a superhuman effort, he succeeded, and darted through the door, Surefoot behind him. His gun was out now and he fired. The detective hurled himself on his man and brought him down. He was up in a second and was running towards the back of the house.
The flames were coming from the roof. The countryside for a hundred yards was almost as light as day. Surefoot, handcuffed as he was, flew in pursuit; and then suddenly Binny turned, and this time his aim was deliberate. Surefoot Smith knew that there was no hope now. The man who covered him was a dead shot, and was within half a dozen paces of him.
In desperation he sprang forward. His feet touched air, and he was falling, falling....
He heard the shot, wondered dimly if this was death, and was brought to the realisation that he was still alive by the impact of his body at the bottom of the hole into which he had fallen. He realised at once what had happened: Binny had been busy all that night preparing this hiding place for his crime, but had missed falling into the hole.
He struggled to his feet, bruised and aching, heard a second shot and looked up. There was a third and fourth. An authoritative voice was challenging somebody. Then he heard his own name called, and shouted. A man's face loomed over the edge of the pit. It was his own sergeant. They brought him up to the top.
"He won't get away," said the detective to whom Surefoot addressed a gasping enquiry.
"Which way did he go, and where is his car?"
He was weary, aching from head to foot, bruised and scratched, but for the moment he had no thought of comfort.
"Feel in my hip pocket; I think he left the key of these handcuffs."
They unlocked the irons and took them off, and he rubbed his bruised wrists.
"Have you found his car?"
Binny's saloon had not been located. The last time Surefoot had seen it, it was at the door of the cottage, but evidently, during one of his absences, the man had taken it to a hiding place. There was a small garage attached to the cottage—a tiny shed—but this was unoccupied.
By the light of the burning house they picked up the tracks. They crossed the grassland to the left of the cottage and must have passed over the very place where Binny had dug the grave. Thereafter they were difficult to trace, but obviously they went straight across the field in the same direction as the man had taken. A quarter of an hour later they picked up unmistakable evidence that the car had been left standing near a small secondary road. The gate was wide open and the tracks of the machine were visible on the soft, wet earth. He had not made for the main road again, but had turned up to the road to Cookham, where traffic would be practically non-existent at this hour of the night and the chances of observation nil.
The solitary police officer on duty at Cookham had seen the car pass, but had not observed the driver. He had turned on to the toll bridge, but at this hour of the night the toll gate is left open. The Bourne End police had seen several cars without taking particular notice of them. He could have taken the Oxford Road across the railway crossing, or he could have followed the river to Marlow.
Surefoot Smith rejected the suggestion that he should go home and rest, leaving the chase to the Flying Squad and the Buckinghamshire police; he rejected it violently and with oaths.
"This fellow can't go far, dressed as he is," he said, "in a singlet and trousers—I pulled most of his shirt off. He is going to hold up somebody, or burgle a house and get a new outfit. You realise what this man is, don't you? He is trained in the gang methods. He will not stop at murder—you are not dealing with an ordinary English criminal."
They were not kept waiting long for proof of this. Deciding upon the Marlow road as being more likely to offer opportunities for this desperado, they came upon a policeman pushing a bicycle. It was raining heavily, and his helmet and cape were dripping wet.
"A blue car passed here five minutes ago," he said.
The police car sped on. Just outside of Marlow they found the machine they were seeking; it was empty.
At three o'clock in the morning a car passing along the Oxford Road was stopped by a policeman, who stood in the middle of the roadway with outstretched arms. Driving the car was a well-to-do farmer from Oxford. He was inclined to be truculent at this stop.
"I am sorry to bother you," said the police officer, "but we are searching for an escaped murderer, and I want you to give me a lift to the other side of High Wycombe."
The farmer, rather intrigued, was not at all displeased, probably a little thrilled, to find himself a participant in a man hunt, and the policeman got into the uncomfortable rear seat of the car. It sped on through the Wycombes.
"I will tell you where to drop me," said the officer.
On the other side of High Wycombe there is a fork road which leads to Princes Risborough.
"Turn here," said the officer.
The driver expostulated—he had to get back to Oxford.
"Turn here," said the police officer, and something cold touched the nape of the farmer's neck.
"Do as you're told."
The policeman's voice was peremptory. The gun in his grimy hand was eloquent. The farmer almost jumped out of his seat with astonishment. He was not wanting in courage, but he was unarmed.
"What's your game?" he asked. He was still unsuspicious that the man behind him was anything but a policeman. "You're not allowed to do that sort of thing."
"Get it out of your nut that I'm a copper," said Binny. "The man whose clothes I'm wearing is lying in a ditch with a break in his bean. Drive where I tell you and save a lot of argument."
The driver turned the car in the direction indicated. They went along a new road, a portion of which was under construction. There were red lamps and a watchman's fire. Dimly the farmer realised that the man behind him was the wanted murderer, and the realisation chilled him.
They were in a country which even at high noon is a little deserted. It was a silent desert now. All the time Binny was watching left and right for a suitable place for his purpose. Presently they passed by the side of the road a wooden building that had the appearance of a barn, and he ordered the driver to stop and turn back. There was an open gate by the side of the barn, and through this they drove.
"Stop here," said Binny. He pushed open the door of the saloon. "Now get down."
He took the little electric lantern which had been part of the unfortunate policeman's equipment, and flashed it on to the door of the barn. It was unsecured by lock or hasp. He pulled open the door with one hand, covering his prisoner with the other.
"Go inside," he said, and followed.
Half an hour later he came out again, wearing the farmer's tweed suit and his high-collared water-proof jacket. He listened for a second at the door before closing it, got into the limousine, and backed on to the road. There was still a considerable danger of his being stopped. A solitary man driving a car would be suspect, no matter whose clothes he was wearing, and the present solution to his difficulty was merely a temporary measure.
If he could find one of those night trucks that run between London and the provinces it would serve him better. These express lorries carried two and often three men. He had to trust to luck.
Detection was certain if he took a direction which led him away from London. In the few hours that remained before the dawn he must work his way back to London. He had three bolt-holes; had the police found them all?
He drove through Aylesbury and worked right. He had an extraordinary knowledge of topography, and was aiming to reach the Great North Road and approach London from that direction.
Passing through a village, a policeman came out of the shadows and held up his hand. For a second Binny hesitated; his first impulse was to drive on, but he was none too certain of the immediate locality, and the chances were that if he did not stop now he would find a "barrage" a few miles farther on.
Binny had studied the police situation very carefully. He knew that the police could close London in a ring by the establishment of these barrage posts, and that he would be liable at any moment to come upon a place where a lorry was drawn up across the road. He knew too of the canvas belts, heavily spiked, which are thrown across the roadway, with disastrous consequences to the non-stop motorist.
He took his foot off the accelerator and brought his car to a standstill.
"Let me see your driving licence," said the police officer.
Binny stiffened. He had relieved his victim of all his portable goods, but a driving licence was not amongst them. Motorists have a trick of carrying this important document in the pocket attached to the door. If it were not there....
He slipped his gun out of his pocket and laid it on the seat by his side before he lifted up the flap of the pocket and began a search. His heart jumped as his fingers touched the familiar shape of the licence. He handed it out and the policeman examined it by the light of his lantern.
"Is this Dornby or Domby?" asked the officer.
"Dornby," said Binny promptly.
It was as likely to be that as the other. The officer handed back the licence without a word.
"You haven't seen anybody driving a blue saloon, have you—a man dressed in shirt and trousers?"
Binny chuckled.
"Well, I wouldn't be able to tell the colour of the saloon, and I certainly wouldn't see what the driver was wearing. Why? Do you want somebody?"
"There's been a murder committed," said the policeman vaguely. "We only had a vague idea as to why the 'arrest and detain' notice should have been issued. Good-night, Mr. Dornby."
Binny drove on. The policeman had not looked into that yellow face, but the next policeman might. They were pretty slick at Scotland Yard, he decided, and wondered how these isolated police posts should have been notified.
He looked at the licence. John Henry Domby was the name, of Wellfield Farm. He memorised this, put the licence in his pocket, and went on.
He had now reached a point where he could avoid villages, for he would soon be striking the North Road, where most efficient barrages would be established, especially when he reached the Metropolitan Police area.
He came at last to the long, winding road that runs from London through Doncaster to the north. Left or right? That was the problem.
He debouched on to the highway through a narrow lane with high banks. It was near a turn of the road. He heard the whir of a motor-car, saw the glow of headlamps, and turned sharply to the left.
The car that came round the corner was hugging the left of the road. The driver saw Binny's machine almost too late to avoid a collision. He swerved to the right, the car skidded on the slippery road, turned completely round, and, striking a telegraph post with one of its wheels, hung drunkenly over the side of the ditch.
Binny pulled up to avoid a second collision, for the wrecked machine was now immediately in front of him, and only by jamming on his brakes did he bring his own car to a standstill a few inches from the other. He heard the chauffeur shout, the door was jerked open, and a woman scrambled out into the glare of the headlamps.
Binny stared, hardly able to believe his eyes. The woman standing in the downpour was Mary Lane!
CHAPTER THIRTY
Security can be very irksome, especially when it is wedded to a lumpy bed in an ill-ventilated room. The sergeant's wife had given her the second best bedroom, which was, by most standards, a comfortable apartment. Mary felt desperately tired when she put out the light, but the moment her head touched the pillow all her weariness and desire for sleep had left her. She lay for half an hour, counting sheep, making up shopping lists, weaving stories, but grew wider and wider awake. At the end of that time she got up, turned on the light, and slipped into her dressing-gown.
She thought the mere act of rising would make her sleepy, but she had been mistaken. She was seized with a longing for her own comfortable quarters at the hotel, and began to dress. She could easily make an excuse to the sergeant's wife, who had gone out for the evening and would not be back till after midnight. There was no telephone in the quarters, but Surefoot Smith had made her free of the station, and she knew she had only to go down-stairs and see the night inspector and he would put her in touch with the detective.
She felt horribly ungrateful, but, so far as she had been concerned, she had come to this safe retreat without any enthusiasm. The danger from Binny was probably exaggerated—Surefoot himself had told her that the man could have no further interest in her now that the hue and cry was out.
Scribbling a note to her hostess—a note which contained more lame excuses for her eccentricity than were necessary—she put on her coat and went down to the charge room.
The inspector to whom she had been introduced had gone out, visiting the patrols. Evidently he had not impressed upon the sergeant in charge the necessity for keeping a watchful eye upon the visitor, and he received her explanation for her return to the hotel with polite interest, until she mentioned the name of Surefoot Smith. Then he became very attentive.
"He's not at the Yard, miss. As a matter of fact, there's been some trouble there. We've had a special warning to look out for him."
She opened her eyes in astonishment.
"Look out for him?" And then, quickly: "Has he disappeared?"
The sergeant did not forget that reticence is the first duty of a constable, and became evasive.
"Is it something to do with Binny?" she insisted.
"Well, yes." He hesitated before he became more communicative. "He's the man wanted for the murder of the old man in Regent's Park. Yes, they've got an idea at the Yard that Binny's got him away somewhere. Rather a queer idea that a murderer can get away an inspector of the C.I.D., but there you are!"
She sensed, without realising, the eternal if gentle rivalry between the uniformed and the ununiformed branches of the Metropolitan Police.
"How could an inspector be lured away? It sounds silly, doesn't it? Personally, I believe it's all bunk, but there you are! We're on the lookout for both of them."
She asked him to get her a cab, and again he was reluctant. Sergeants in charge of station houses have no time to find cabs for visitors; but she was evidently a friend of Surefoot Smith's and he stretched a point in her favour, telephoned to a cab rank, and five minutes later she was driving through the rain to Scotland Yard.
She left just as the squad cars were starting out in search of Surefoot, and she interviewed the Chief Inspector. He offered her very little information and a great deal of fatherly advice about going to bed. He evidently knew nothing whatever of Surefoot's plan to protect her, and was a little embarrassed when she asked if she might stay at Scotland Yard until some news was received.
"I shouldn't worry if I were you, Miss Lane," he said. "We've got police barrages on all the roads for thirty miles round London, and I am very certain that Surefoot will turn up. He's an erratic sort of individual, and I wouldn't be surprised to see him walk in at any moment."
Nevertheless, she was determined to stay, and he had her taken to Surefoot's own room.
It was a quiet room, and now that the first excitement of the night was over she realised how tired she was and how foolish she had been to leave even an uncomfortable bed.
She sat at the table, resting her head on one palm, found herself nodding, and, after a while, passing into that uneasy stage of semi-consciousness which is nearly sleep.
She woke with a jump as the Chief Inspector came in.
"Young lady, you go home," he said. "We've found Surefoot; so far as I can make out, he's not very badly hurt."
He told her briefly what had happened.
"Binny has escaped. Surefoot's theory is that he's breaking north. Have you ever noticed that a fugitive from justice invariably turns north? It's a fact—at least, nearly a fact. Now you go home, Miss Lane, and I'll send an officer round to your hotel in the morning with the latest news."
"Is he coming back to London?" she asked. "Mr. Smith, I mean?"
The Chief smiled.
"If he had half the intelligence he's supposed to have he'd get himself admitted to a nursing home. No. We've formed a sort of headquarters barrage this side of Welwyn. Chief Inspector Roose is in charge, and Surefoot is going across for a consultation. He's all right—your friend Mr. Allenby is with him."
He had a cab called and she drove to her hotel. She must have been half asleep for two hours, she saw as she passed Big Ben and heard two o'clock strike. She was wider awake than she had been at any period of the night.
The hall porter who admitted her was searching for her letters when she stopped him.
"Is there a place where I can hire a car?" she asked.
He looked at her in astonishment.
"Yes, miss. Do you want one tonight?"
She hesitated. The Chief had said that Dick and Surefoot were at Welwyn, but he had not said where. At first she supposed that they had taken up their quarters at the local police station—she was rather hazy as to what a barrage meant. But there would be policemen on the road, stopping cars, and they would direct her to where the two men could be found.
Why she should go at all was not quite clear even to herself. It was a desire to be "in it," to be close to the big events which touched her own life so closely, to see with her own eyes the development of the story in which she had been a character. She could find plenty of excuses; none that she could have stated convincingly.
"Yes, get me a car. Tell them to come round as soon as they can."
He gave her the key of her room and she went upstairs, and presently the porter came up after her, bringing some coffee he had made, for by night he was not only custodian but cook.
Leo Moran had been removed to his own flat, he told her, but mainly he talked, with a certain amount of pride, about the reporters who had been "coming and going" since the discovery of the gassed banker.
She had hardly finished her coffee before the car came, and, dressing herself a little more warmly, she went down and gave the driver instructions.
As the car drew out of the suburbs into the open country, Binny and his flight assumed a new significance. She was not sorry for him. If she was a little frightened, it was not of the man, but at the thought of the vast machinery that her brain had put into motion. The moment she had heard of that scrawled note on the back of the cheque she had solved the mystery of Binny's defalcations, and when she had heard that all the forgeries were dated the seventeenth of the month—the day that the old man invariably paid his tradesmen's bills—she was sure.
And now, because she had remembered the shape and appearance of the key of a kitchen door, because she had added cheques to key, eighteen thousand London policemen were looking for this bald-headed man. That was the frightening thing; not Binny and the menace of him, but the spectacle of these great winding wheels moving to crush a malefactor.
To Mary Lane, Binny was hardly as much an individual as a force. She thought the car was speeding a little dangerously on the wet road. Once she distinctly felt a skid, and gripped the arm-rest tightly.
They could not have been more than a few miles from Welwyn when, rounding a turn, she saw a car come into the road ahead, and went cold, for she realised that, at the speed they were travelling, it was almost impossible to avoid it. Her car swerved and turned giddily; she felt a crash, and was thrown violently to her knees as the machine canted over.
She reached up at the door, and by sheer physical strength flung it open and scrambled out on to the wet road. The chauffeur was already standing by the bonnet, staring at the car stupidly.
"I'm very sorry, miss," he said huskily. "I'll have to telephone for another car from town. Perhaps this gentleman will take you into Welwyn."
The second car, in avoiding which the accident had occurred, was behind them. Mary walked towards it as the driver got down from his seat. His coat collar was turned up, and she could not see his face.
"Had an accident?" he asked gruffly.
The chauffeur came forward.
"Will you drive us into Welwyn?" he asked. "I've smashed my near side front wheel."
"You'd better wait with the car. I'll drive the lady; it's only a couple of miles ahead," said the other. "Go on, miss, jump in; I'll drop you in the town and send back a breakdown gang for the car."
This arrangement apparently suited the chauffeur, and Mary followed the motorist, and, when he opened the door of his car, entered without any misgivings. He walked round the back of the machine, got in by the other door, and sat by her side. She could not see his face; his collar was still turned up. As he started the engine and moved on she thought she heard him laugh, and wondered what there was amusing in the situation.
"It's very good of you to take me," she said. "I'm afraid the accident was our fault."
He did not reply for a moment, but at last:
"Accidents will happen," he said sententiously.
They went two or three hundred yards along the road, and then suddenly the car turned left. She knew roughly the position of Welwyn, knew enough at any rate to realise that they were going away from the town.
"Haven't you made a mistake?" she asked.
"No." His reply was short and gruff, but it aroused in her no more than a sense of resentment.
From the second road they turned into a third, a narrow lane which ran roughly parallel with the main road. It skirted some big estate; high trees banked up one side of the lane, and a wire fence cut the estate from the road. The car slowed, and as they came abreast of a white gate, stopped. The driver turned the machine so that the headlamps searched the gate and revealed its flimsy character. Without hesitation he sent the car jerking forward, crashing one of the lamps and sending the gate into splinters.
Beyond was a fairly smooth gravel road, and up this the car sped.
"Where are we going?"
A cold chill was at the girl's heart; an understanding of her danger set her trembling from head to foot.
Binny did not reply till they had gone a hundred yards. He found an opening between the trees on the right, set the car in that direction, and jolted on for another fifty yards. Then he stopped the machine.
"What is the meaning of this?" she asked.
"You're a very nice young lady, a very sweet young lady. Charmed to meet you again in such romantic circumstances."
As she heard that mincing, affected voice she almost swooned. Binny! The horror of her discovery came to her with full force, as he went on:
"Friend of Mr. Allenby's—fiancée, aren't you, young lady? And a friend of my dear friend, Surefoot Smith."
She reached out for the door handle and tried to rise, but he threw her back.
"I've had several ideas about you. The first was that nobody would stop me if they saw me driving with a lady. Then it struck me that I was being optimistic. The second thought that occurred to me, my dear, was that you might be of great assistance to me. And the third thought, my sweet young thing, was that, if the worst came to the worst—they can only hang you once, you know, whatever you do. Not that they will hang me," he went on quickly, "I am too clever for them. Now we'll get out and see where we are."
He leaned over her, pushed open the door, and, catching her by the arm, guided her to the ground.
Just before she had left the hotel the porter had handed her a thick bundle of letters. She had advertised for a maid and had given the hotel as her address; these were some of the replies. She had thrust them into her pocket, and as she stepped from the car she remembered them. She drew one from her pocket and dropped it on the ground.
Binny had retained the lantern he had taken from the policeman, and with the aid of this they found their way through the plantation.
"You and I will find another car."
He chatted pleasantly, and even in her terror she could find time to wonder how he could return to the character of Washington Wirth. It was grotesque, unbelievable, like a bad dream.
"I am a man of infinite resource," he went on, never releasing his grip of her arm. "For hundreds of years they will talk about Binny, just as today they talk about Jack Sheppard. And the wonderful thing about it is that I shall end my life quietly, as a respectable member of society. Possibly be a town councillor or a mayor in a colonial town—a pleasing prospect and a part that I could act!"
It was at this point she dropped her third letter. She must husband her trail; the supply of letters was not inexhaustible. She dropped her fourth as they started to cross the corner of a field.
All the time he kept up his incessant babble.
"You need have no qualms, my dear young lady. No harm will come to you—for the moment. Whilst you are alive, I am alive! You are a hostage—that is the word, isn't it?"
She made no reply. The first feeling of panic had worn off. She could only speculate upon what would happen at the last, when this desperate man was in a corner and she was at his mercy.
Before them loomed against the night sky the outlines of a big house. They came to a lawn surrounded by an iron fence, and, walking parallel with this, they reached on open gateway and a paved yard.
Once or twice there had been a lull in his monologue. He had stopped to listen. It was a very still night; the sound of distant rumbling trains, the whine of motor-cars passing along the highway came to them distinctly. He was apparently satisfied, for he made no comment. Now, as they passed into a tiled yard, he stopped again and listened, turning his head backwards. As he did so he saw the flash of a lamp—only for the fraction of a second, and then it disappeared. It seemed to come from the plantation they had left. He had left his lights burning—was that it? He moved left and right a few paces, and did not see the light again.
The possibility that there were gamekeepers in the wood now occurred to him. It was obviously a covert of some kind; the lower part of the fence was made of wire netting.
He never once released his hold of the girl. She felt the tenseness of the moment and held her breath. Then, without a word, he guided her into the yard, and now she observed that he used his lamp with greater caution. There were stables here; two of the half doors were wide open and hung on broken hinges. There was no need to make any further investigation; the house to which the stables were attached was unoccupied.
They came to what was evidently a kitchen door and found a small, weather-stained notice.
"Keys at Messrs. Thurlow, Welwyn."
There was a long casement window at the back of the house. Binny pushed the barrel of his pistol through two panes, groped for the catch, and, finding it, pulled it open.
"Get in——" he began, and at that moment he was caught in a circle of blinding light.
From somewhere in the yard a powerful lamp was turned on him, and a voice he hated said:
"Don't move, Binny!"
It was Surefoot Smith.
For a second he stood, paralysed, his arm still clasping the girl's. Suddenly he jerked her before him, his arm round her waist.
"If you come anywhere near me I'll shoot," he said, and she felt the cold barrel of a gun glide along her neck.
"What's the good of being silly, Binny?" Surefoot's voice was almost caressing.
They could not see him in the glare of the light that he or somebody held.
"Stand your trial like a man. It's fifty-fifty we've got nothing on you."
"You haven't, eh?" snarled Binny. "That dog doesn't fight, Smith. You take your men and clear them out of this place. Give me an hour, and I'll leave this baby without hurting her. Come any closer and I'll blow her head off—and then you'll have something on me. It won't be fifty-fifty either."
There was a long pause, and the girl heard the low voices of men in conversation.
"All right," said Surefoot at last. "I'll give you an hour, but you'll hand over the girl right away."
Binny laughed harshly.
"Am I a child? I'll leave her when I'm safe. You go back to where you came, and——"
That was all he said. The silent-footed man who had worked round behind him struck swiftly with a rubber truncheon. The girl had only time to swing herself clear before he crumpled and fell.
The chauffeur of the wrecked car had been in luck. Hardly had Binny disappeared before another machine came into the sight, and the chauffeur begged a lift into Welwyn. Less than a mile along the road they ran into a police barrage and he told his story. He gave valuable information, for he had seen the lights of Binny's car turn from the road.
"Practically you were never out of sight, from the moment you left the plantation," said Surefoot. "The broken gate gave him away, and he left the lights of his car burning. It was easy, even without the trail of letters you left. Very scientific, but we didn't see them!"
The arrest and conviction of Binny had a demoralising effect upon Surefoot Smith. On the day this wholesale murderer stood on the trap in Pentonville Prison, Surefoot departed from the rule of a lifetime, refused all beer and drank spirits. As he explained to Dick Allenby:
"If ever there was a day to get soused—that was the day!"
THE END
NOVELS BY
EDGAR WALLACE
The Man at the Carlton
White Face
The India-Rubber Men
Red Aces
Again the Ringer
Again Sanders
The Clue of the Silver Key
The Flying Squad
The Double
Again the Three Just Men
The Forger
The Squeaker
The Feathered Serpent
Terror Keep
The Square Emerald
The Ringer
The Northing Tramp
The Traitor's Gate
The Brigand
The Joker
Sanders
The Black Abbot
The Door with Seven Locks
The Gaunt Stranger
The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder
Penelope of the "Polyantha"
The Day of Uniting
We Shall See
The Yellow Snake
The Four Just Men
The Terrible People
The Green Archer
The Clue of the New Pin
The Crimson Circle
The Angel of Terror
The Law of the Four Just Men
The Strange Countess
The Sinister Man
Double Dan
The Valley of Ghosts
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LIMITED LONDON